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"HEW TO THE LINE. LET THE CHIPS TALL WHERE THEY MAV." 



Tatat Clij, t'rlday Jim.- H, iw). 



Yates City Banner 




Dry Goods, Notions, 
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Swiss and Hamburg 
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tions, old men's Fedora 
hats black and colored; 
New styles in young- 
men's hats; new corsets, 

Ladies White Parasols in Assorted Styles, 
and must be sold right now 



G. A. STETSON. 

Dry Good*. Men s Furnishings and Shoes 

Just a Business 
PROPOSITION. 

That 3 what (jiiying supjilies for the fain- 
ily really is There is no sentiment in it. 
Groceries and meats are two of the main 
propositions. If I can make it to your ad- 
vantage and profit to buy them at my store, 
you will come- here for them. I mean to 
make it to your advantage and profit to buy 
at my grocery and meat market Seel 

C V. BIRD, Model Grocef y. 
WARREisfPAINTT"' 

The Right Paint to Paint Right. 
White Seal and Fahnestock white lead. 

Pure raw and boiled linkeed oil 
Slams and Varnishes at lowest prices 



. MM anci.« .( •.. CM. W.MU. I MIM Cm... 1^...^. - - 



Are the most economical, are fly light, easy 
to adjust and can be Kad in all sizes at 

TAYLOR BRO S. & SCOTT'S. 

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thr.^^°*°^*5^.*''/uP'"^"TT*^?? ?i *^^ ^'■'* P«Se of the Yates City Banner, for over thirty- 
eSSwri't^gs^ "^ • ""• ^^^^^^^^'^^ ^^^ - -b-t the contentJof this book appeared i 



OUR HOUR ALONE 

MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
AND POEMS 



BY 



A. H. McKEIGHAN 

For more than thirty-three years Editor 
of the Yates City Banner, at Yates City, 111. 



With an Introduction by 

JUDGE P. W. GALLAGHER 

of Canton, 111. 



Copyrighted 1913, by A. H. McKeighan 



Published July, 1913, by the Author 

Permanent Address, Yates City, 111. 
Present Address, Suite 424, 108 S. La SaUe St.. Chicago 






Dedication 
To the Sacred Memory of 

My Dear, Loved Wife 

Who for fifty-four years was the angel of my 
home, and to whose love, devotion, courage, 
wisdom, counsel, patience and unfailing loyalty 
to me under all circumstances, I owe whatever 
of success I have attained, I most reverently 
dedicate this book. 



CM' M<^^ 




^^. 






©CI,A351077 



' Author's Preface 

At the earnest solicitation of many friends I have consented to 
publish this book. I submit it to the criticism of the public with no 
small degree of diffidence, and yet with that courage which my readers 
have in the past, given me credit for. I will state that the copy was 
not written with any intention of being published in book form. The 
greater portion of it was prepared in haste, and under circumstances 
that made it impossible to give it that careful study that might have 
improved it. It is compiled from the editorial writings of more than 
a third of a century. It has been no easy task to select from such a 
large amount of copy that which seemed to the author to be the best, 
and it may be that I have made mistakes. 

The aim has been to use that which would interest, instruct and 
amuse the readers and, at the same time incite them to choose the 
better, truer, nobler things in life that make for higher aims, stronger 
characters, purer living and the highest type of citizenship among men 
and women. 

In this book the reader will get a glimpse of the life and character 
of the author. In that life work, and in the building of that char- 
acter he is largely indebted to his faithful wife, one of the noblest 
and best of women, and to whose revered and sacred memory he has 
dedicated this volume. 

I return my sincere thanks to all those who have aided and as- 
sisted me, those whose generous patronage has made it possible for 
me to publish the book, and whose kind words of encouragement and 
approval are so much appreciated that they can never be forgotten 
until the death angel draws about me that curtain that shuts out for- 
ever the best loved scenes of earth. 



C>P M^-^^^^X^- 




Introduction 

To be possessed of high ideals of the immutable character of Al- 
mighty God. To firmly believe, and for a lifetime, conscientiously 
follow the teachings of the Christian religion. To be endowed with 
a spirit of loyalty to country, a love for pure, honest government, the 
enactment and forceful administration of law in the interest of all 
the people. To be a faithful, loving husband, a generous, kind father, 
a true friend and a reliable citizen for more than seventy-six years, 
is to have lived a life of which any human being should be proud. 

Such a life has been lived by my old friend, A. H. McKeighan, now 
of Chicago, Illinois, who for more than thirty-three years past was 
managing editor and owner of the Yates City Banner, of Yates City, 
Illinois. 

Mr. McKeighan has now determined to give to his friends and 
the reading world, a treat of high character, by presenting to them 
in book form, the best articles he has written during his many years 
of editorial labor, and many of them, I can assure the public, are 
literary gems that can be found in no other publication. 

Their reproduction will be both interesting and instructive, Mr. 
McKeighan 's pen pictures of public men and public events were always 
true, keen criticism in the interest of right and good government. 

I congratulate Mr. McKeighan on his proposed publication, and 
I heartily congratulate the reading public on the great treat in store 
for them. I hope that this book will meet with general favor and 
prove a great success in every way that success may be fairly measured. 

"What shall we gain when we reach the end of a life of joy and pains, 
When Mother Earth on rich and poor, has a deed to all remains? 
What shall we gain? The pleasing thought that heaven's blessing sends. 
The thought that we have an abiding place in the memory of friends." 

Canton, 111., June 15, 1913. 



Our Hour Alone 

The Cradle 

The grandest motion in all the world is the motion of the cradle 
as it rocks to and fro, in palace, or mansion, or hovel. The most heart 
touching appeal that falls on human ears is the wail that rises from 
millions of cradles. The sweetest music that vibrates the atmosphere 
of earth, and rolls upward to the very jasper gates of heaven, is the lulla- 
bys of the mothers who sing above the tender pledges of love who are 
being soothed into dreamland in the cradle. It is about the cradle 
that hopes cluster, pregnant with thousands of possibilities. 

What mother ever bent over a cradle and saw the vision of a desert 
life? What maternal eye ever looked down into a cradle and traced a 
path leading to a jail ? What maternal glance has ever seen the shadow 
of a gibbet glide over the cradle where slept the angel of her promise? 
And yet, alas ! the possibilities of desert lives, and jails, and gibbets, lie 
wrapped in these cradles. Here are lying in helpless ignorance the 
curses of a world. Here, too, unconscious of the latent power, are 
reposing those who are to bless a race. Go and peer into the cradle if 
you would see the latent forces that are to pulse a world. If you would 
view the weakness of strength, stand by the cradle and gaze into the 
wonderful face of an infant. If you would note the ignorance of wis- 
dom, you must look on the embryo man wrapped in swaddling clothes, 
and resting in the cradle. 

The great undeveloped forces of a race are sleeping on cradle 
pillows. In these humble receptacles, and rocked by the foot of a 
loving mother, who sings to lighten toil and soothe her precious charge, 
are to be found those who are to develop the resources of nature in the 
future. A future generation is not roaming over plains, nor climbing 
rugged steeps, nor stemming swift and strong currents, nor lifting up 
a voice in senates, nor striking the sturdy pick into the flinty ore, nor 
wielding the pen of wisdom, nor handling the sword of power. No; a 
future generation is in repose; is in rest; is in the cradle. 

Gather all the wealth in the universe into one great shining heap, 
gemmed with all the diamonds, and rubies, and precious stones that 
can ever be gathered, and the whole dazzling pile pales in lustre when 
but the sparkling eye of one infant casts its brighter radiance over it. 
Bring together all the paintings and all the sculpture that genius has 
created, and how their grandeur diminishes, and their beauty disappears 
when the crowing infant but lifts a faultless leg or matchless arm from 



10 U R HOUR ALONE 

a cradle pillow, and waves it before them. Bring together, if it be pos- 
sible, all those colossal works that man has builded, the pyramids, the 
sphinxes, the great wall of China, the leaning tower of Pisa, the Druid 
rocks, the tower of Babel, the mounds of the Mound Builders, that race 
so lost in hoary centuries that only speculation dares to molest them, 
and place with them all the beauty, and elegance, and grandeur of the 
world's architecture, then lift from its cradle bed the miniature man, 
and as you place him beside the imposing pile, listen to the majestic and 
striking declaration of the holy book saying, "It is fearfully and won- 
derfully made," and how insignificant man's mightiest works appear! 
Pile up a vast pyramid of the wisdom and the learning of the world 
as preserved in books, and as the mother lifts from out its cradle bed 
her babe and places it beside the accumulated wisdom and learning of 
a world, who would dare to say that wrapped in its little frame, so 
frail that but a breath might waft away the vital spark of life, there 
does not lie hidden a learning deeper, and a wisdom more profound 
than all these volumes hold? 

In these cradles are the Abrahams, the Isaacs, the Jacobs, the 
Josephs, the Moseses, the Aarons, the Joshuas, the Sauls, the Davids, 
the Jonathans, the Solomons, the Nehemiahs, the Ezekiels, the Daniels, 
the Isaiahs, the Johns, the Peters, the Pauls, the Calvins, the Luthers, 
the Knoxes, the Wesleys, the Wilberforces, the Washingtons, the 
Lincolns, the Grants, the great rulers, the mighty warriors, the his- 
torians, the sculptors, the painters, the poets, the inventors, the dis- 
coverers, of the future. Freighted with the hopes of a race are these 
cradles. And in them lie all the possibilities that human ambition, 
stimulated by example, is capable of attaining. The purest love, the 
tenderest affection, the holiest passions, the fondest hopes, the most 
sacred joys of earth cluster around these cradles. Were we a painter, 
and our brush could trace the canvas o'er with living thoughts and 
grand conceptions, and did we wish to show the highest and most 
perfect scene of human happiness, then should our model be the 
mother, young and fair, bending above the cradle bed where sleeps 
her child. 

And as we sit tonight amid the silence of a sleeping world, the 
hour nearing that mysterious time when one day dies just as another 
day is born, and but the ticking clock sounds like a funeral bell, 
a vision rises on our view, a quiet country home appears, and in it 
is a cradle, an empty cradle ; and by it sits a mother in her grief ; upon 
a board, covered o'er with cloth of spotless white, and resting on two 
chairs, in an adjacent corner, rests a child; the hair is smooth and 
glossy; the waxen face is pinched as if by suffering past; the hands 
are folded o'er a breast that heaves and falls no more; the feet are 
straightened to remain forever; the mother rises, and with noiseless 



OUR HOUR ALONE 11 

tread approaches, turns down the snowy covering, and kneeling there 
she kisses the cold brow, and presses lips hot with the fever of a 
sacred grief to lips that are as cold as clay ; and tears fall in a blessed 
shower, as bending in the presence of this great mystery of life, she 
hears the wail of Eve, when Abel was lying at her feet, the wail of 
Egypt's mothers, and of every mother from creation's dawn until now, 
and she knows for the first time how stricken they were, and what a 
hollow mockery the words of consolation are. And then we see her 
look from the silent form back to the empty cradle, and start up to 
realize that we have painted a picture that will be a vivid reality to 
many a mother, and we realize further that if earth's holiest, highest 
joys cluster around the cradle of the living child, that its sublimest, 
deepest, darkest sorrow clusters around the empty cradle from which 
has just been lifted the dead form of the babe. 

A Tired Mother 

Just a tired mother, that is all. She has wiped the sweat from her 
hot brow with the corner of her apron, and she is looking out of the 
back window of a small kitchen, her eager gaze sweeping the green 
fields where thousands of rustling corn blades are flaunting their 
green streamers in the shimmering sunlight, and the billowy wheat 
is rolling forward in graceful undulations before the brisk breeze 
that sways and bends the boughs of the yielding maples, and causes 
the leaves of the tall, graceful poplars to dance and flutter as if they 
were rejoicing in the beauty and the gladness of the bright day. 

Only a moment does she devote to this scene of nature in worship ; 
only a moment does her eye take in this panorama of earth's mag- 
nificent beauty, and then she turns with a scarce audible sigh to the 
weary, worrying, wearing and monotonous duties of everyday work 
of a woman's life on the farm. 

What tempted that sigh to be audible even in the slightest degree ? 
It would be idle to guess. She is a woman past fifty years and she 
has toiled through all the experiences that come to those of her age. 
She was a school girl once, careless, happy and free as the wild 
flowers she garlanded into wreaths ; she was the grown daughter once, 
and stood by another kitchen window, while the shadows were deepen- 
ing around her, and watched the path across the meadow for the 
coming of a form, and dreamed, as only a maiden can dream ; she was 
a bride, too, and felt the strange emotions of the new life surging 
about her wildly fluttering heart; she was a mother, and knew the 
raptures of the strong, tender, holy, enduring sentiment of maternal 
love ; she was a mourner, and realized the bitter hopelessness of those 
who stand beside the little casket gazing down into the face of a dead 



12 OUR HOUR ALONE 



babe; she has been half crazed by the nervousness of a sleepless 
pillow, as she listened for the returning footsteps of a wayward son 
whose feet are treading dangerously near the brink of ruin, and has 
pleaded in prayer, while the tick, tick, tick of the clock counted ofe 
the slowly dragging hours; she has stood beside the altar where her 
daughter was putting her all of earthly happiness into the keeping 
of another, and only those who have stood there know aught of what 
passes in the deep recesses of the heart at such a time. 

Might not a thought going back to any of these past experiences 
be the cause of the little sigh ? 

And all these years she has gone about the same household duties, 
too busy to repine, too full of cares to take the smallest portion of 
the precious hours for rest or pleasure. 

That is her picture over the shelf where the lambrequin is so 
gracefully festooned, whose needlework is so delicate in pattern that 
it is much admired, though the hands that wrought it have long since 
been folded in the dreamless sleep. But the picture, while like her, 
is unlike her, for it was taken years ago, and she has changed. 
Swift years ! how they fly ! She is not thinking of change or rest, for 
she does not see how the world could move on if she did not per- 
form the round of her daily duties. She has changed, but her toils 
have not, nor will they. Some day a shadow will creep over these 
familiar rooms, the flutter of the dark angel's wing will disturb the 
quiet atmosphere in the house where she has so long practiced self 
immolation, and she will lie down to rest forever. 

The Sore Heeled Boy 

We have all seen him; we have all known him; most of us have 
been him in days gone by. The sore heeled boy always has been a 
character, is one now, and always will be. When he ceases to be, the 
sun will grow dim, the moon hang a black ball in midheaven, the 
stars cease to twinkle in the azure depths, the winds wither, and the 
waters stagnate. He is in age from 7 to 11 years; he ripens in the 
autumn months, generally from September to the middle of December, 
while some specimens may be found even up to the glad holidays. He 
is tanned by fierce suns ; he wears pants much too short for him ; one 
leg is rolled up, while the other is frayed by dragging over the clods. 
He has one suspender, fastened by a half button on the back part, 
and held up in front by a toggle; his hair is white, tangled and un- 
kempt; he has a scarce perceptible squint of one eye, a few freckles 
scattered over his cheeks, a stub nose and a bias patch on the seat 
of his pants. No one can tell how his heel got sore; it may be an 
old fashioned stone bruise, or it may be that he injured it gouging 
the dirt off a moldboard of a stubborn plow that refused to scour. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 18 

or perhaps it was hurt in the zeal with which he stamped the hole 
to prevent the bumble-bees from getting out, while his hands were 
busy clawing an old king bee out of his disordered hair, and his com- 
rades were rolling in high glee on the grass at a safe distance, and 
yelling "Go it, boots," at the top of their voices. It doesn't matter how 
he came by it, but he has it. At first he makes quite a fuss over it; 
his mother is called on and after a critical examination she says : 
''Well, I do declare, if that boy hain't got another sore heel." Then 
she slips softly upstairs, takes down a bundle of rags, tears off a strip, 
returns to the kitchen, goes into the pantry, takes from the top shelf 
a small tin box, smells of the contents, reaches in with her forefinger, 
dips out a small portion, holds it close to her nose, tucks the box in 
the rag, goes to the sewing machine, takes a needle carefully from the 
cushion, holds it between her eye and the light — for just what purpose 
we never could decide — unwraps a small piece of castile soap from a 
flannel rag that has lain in the corner of the bureau drawer, and which 
no other living soul knew was in the house, secures a basin of tepid 
rain water, seizes the boy's foot and begins to wash away the dirt, and 
press carefully with her delicate, soft touch about the bruise, until the 
boy utters lots of "ouches," "oh mys," "don'ts," "that hurts," and 
finally breaks into a regular boo-boo, hoo-hoo. Then she spreads some 
green salve from the tin box on a clean rag, applies it to the sore, 
binds over another rag and sews it on securely, dries his tears on the 
corner of her apron, assists him to the little bed in the corner, asks 
him if he is going to forget his prayers, listens to the sobbing repetition 
of that matchless invocation, "Our Father who art in heaven," covers 
him up snugly, speaks a few words of comfort in such a soothing tone 
that he almost forgets his pain, prints the holiest of earthly kisses on 
his brow and leaves him to himself. Then she returns in half an hour 
to find him with eyes closed, breathing heavily, a look of pain on his 
young face, and traces of tears down either cheek. Then she softly 
mutters, "God bless mother's pet," adjusts the covers and descends 
to cut the leg off an old sock, well knowing that a boot or shoe will be 
out of the question. The next day, and for days and days, yes, for 
weeks and weeks — perhaps months — you will see the boy moving about, 
walking on the ball of his foot with the old sock over the sore heel. 
Sometimes the heel does not seem to trouble him much, as, for instance, 
if he sees a steam thresher coming, hears two dogs fighting, catches 
the strains of a hand organ, or hears of a party who are going nutting. 
At another time the heel takes a wonderful tantrum, as, for instance, 
if his mother wants him to dig potatoes, carry away the slop, split 
kindling or drive up the cows. As we sit here in the silence tonight, 
our thoughts trying to penetrate the future or wander back into the 
past, we set our foot down hard to make sure that we are not a sore- 



14, OUR HOUR ALONE 



heeled boy again, and the jar wakes us from a half reverie, and we 
realize that forty years intervene between us and the sore-heel period 
of life, and we hear the labored breathing of the dear old mother who 
soothed us when we belonged to the sore-heeled brigade, and we find 
ourselves wondering what the sore-heeled boys of today will be doing 
when forty more years are added to the calendar of time, and the 
hands that trace these pages shall be folded on a silent bosom. 

A Transfigured Hero 

It is easy to be a hero when everybody knows it. But most heroes 
are not discovered until after they are dead. It is then that brilliant 
writers dip their ready pens in fabled inks and say the things that 
should have been said to the living rather than of the dead. But 
such as these our humbler pen, dipped in no magic urn, and with no 
nibs on fire with great achievements, has no desire to lift to public 
gaze. Today was cold, bleak and cheerless. Its hours are going out 
boisterously, the wind a moan — nay, almost a very shriek. It rattles 
the windows, whips the bare branches of the two sturdy maples that, 
in summer, shade the walk in front of our humble cot, and it has that 
peculiar whistle in the crevice of the stovepipe that in the long past 
days of childhood so filled us with awe that we crept close to the knee 
of the dear old mother for safety, and felt but half secure when the 
tousled head was pillowed on her lap. How her kindly face comes 
out before our inner consciousness as we write! Again we hear her 
low, sweet, musical voice as she dispels our fears with reassuring 
words. The snows of many winters have fallen on her grave, and 
kindly summer suns coaxed from the bosom of mother earth the 
bladed grass to green the mound where sleeps her hallowed dust, 
and flowers have bloomed and faded above her, as she sleeps the last, 
long, dreamless sleep in the beautiful Oak Ridge cemetery at Farming- 
ton. But our heart yearns tonight, Oh! so deeply yearns to lay an 
older head upon that lap, that the graver fears of a maturer age might 
be soothed. 

But this is wandering. The day has been a gloomy one — dear 
reader, recall Monday — ^the clouds dull and heavy, the air keen and 
penetrating beyond the season, and the wind — it reminds us of the 
winds that were so awe-inspiring in the long ago, as we listened to 
its soughing in the tops of the stately pines in the forests about the 
beautiful town of Millville, New Jersey. True it is that : 

"When chill November's surly blasts. 
Make fields and forests bare." 

And while the day has impressed us by its cheerless gloom, it will be 
remembered more for an incident that came to our notice. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 16 

"We saw a man with bent form and gray hair. He was clothed in 
threadbare garments, faded and frayed. "We heard from thoughtless 
lips of ignorant men that in the scramble after the pelf the world so 
loves and worships, he had always come out last, and with nothing. 
We heard the scornful laugh, and low-toned speech that said he had 
no pride, or better garb would hide the angularity of his loose-jointed 
frame. It grated harshly on our ears, and set a-quiver every sensitive 
nerve, for we, by chance, had known him from a lad, knew how his 
future once was pregnant with great hopes, and expectation stood on 
tip-toe, looking over into HIS promised land from HIS Kadesh Bernea, 
and how the hand of God had turned his weary feet back to the wilder- 
ness, how sickness sapped the substance of his home, and death, whose 
cruel hand has never pity shown, had robbed him of those he loved, till 
now more ties are binding him to heaven than anchor him to earth. 
"We knew how time and time again some prize seemed just within his 
grasp, when one of longer reach and subtler cunning removed it from 
his path. We knew that in the recent time he had, by strict economy, 
scraped together enough to change his rags to better things, but ere 
he got them a letter came that told how an old friend — one he loved — 
in a distant state — was sick, and — well — in want. The post office got 
two coppers for a stamp, a far-away home was made bright as Eden's 
fairest morn, even when the natural sun was hidden by sombre clouds, 
and he — well, he still wears a shiny, frazzled, faded coat. 

Today we saw the crimson mount his cheek as those who never 
dreamed the manner of man he was, turned supercilious, scorning lip 
to say hard things of him. 

And as he buried himself from human sight within the little room 
where tasks are done that would a burden prove to younger men than 
he — ^to men of larger hope — we thought it were an illusion — but at 
the moment it seemed almost a real thing — we thought a halo played 
about his plain and homely face, and as we thought of all that he 
had done and suffered — and all without a thought of self — but all 
for others — there rose before us the sacred mount in Palestine, where 
the lowly Nazarene was transfigured in the presence of His chosen 
disciples. 

The hours are waning fast. The day will soon be part of that great 
past that grows by slow but sure accretion of dead days. Those 
whose daily toil and interest center in Yates City are wrapt in sleep. 
We started out to write of heroes, and with the dear readers of the 
Banner, who, in the days gone by, have kindly welcomed some of the 
brain children born in "Our Hour Alone," we leave the decision of 
whether we have missed our good intent or not, for all that we can say 
is that with a softer heart we say to all, ' ' good night. ' ' 



16 OUR HOUR ALONE 

Let Santa Claus Come 

There are many homes blest with children, bright, lovable, happy 
boys and girls, and they are all on tip-toe with expectation as to what 
Santa Claus will bring. In these homes there is not much money, and 
the little there is some one has a claim on, and the parents are in 
sore distress as to whether it is their duty to pay the little debt and 
disappoint the children, or have Santa Claus come and make the boys 
and girls happy. Please don't ask us to tell you what to do. We 
know, and you know, that the world says "pay the debt," and the 
world is right ; but — blamed if we wouldn 't say let Santa Claus come ; 
let the eyes of the little ones sparkle with joy, even though the money 
that enabled Santa Claus to come were a dollar and a half that was 
due the editor, and the lack of which may compel him to eat very 
common grub for his Christmas dinner. Let God feed the editor — that 
is, if he is in favor of our theory for the children — if he isn 't, he isn 't 
worth feeding. 

This is just about the fool advice we would give if you did ask 
us, so please don't ask us, for if you followed our advice you would 
be a repudiator and an anarchist almost as abhorrent as W. J. Bryan, 
who wanted to make silver dollars so plenty that the children of the 
poor laboring man might have plenty to eat, and might hug a very 
sure enough doll at the glad Christmas time — the time when the won- 
derful Christ child's feeble wail mingled with the lowing of the kine, 
in the little hamlet of Bethlehem, while the glad angel song woke 
echoes that will reverberate around and around the world, until that 
supreme moment when the angel shall stand with one foot upon the 
sea, and one on solid land, proclaiming that time shall be no longer. 

But you who level the coldness of your criticism at us — you, who 
feel your honest blood boil at our loose moral suggestions — have you 
tested every phase of human experience ? Did you stand one Christmas 
day looking down into the sadly sorrowing face of the dearest little girl 
in all the world, and hear her sobbing cry that Santa Claus had for- 
gotten her, and felt your own bosom heave and swell as the waves 
of sorrow rose and sank in her little breast? Did you watch her make 
little futile attempts at play during the day, and did you slip up to 
her little cot at night, after she had cried herself to sleep, and kiss the 
tears from her wet lashes, turning your head so your own hot tears 
might not fall on the little innocent face over which you were bending, 
while you made a solemn promise before God to right her wrong next 
Christmas? Did you forget the matter until a few months later you 
again stood by her little cot and looked down upon the saddest mystery 
in all the universe of God — a dying child, and realized that her 
next Christmas would be passed in the presence of Him whose birth 
made sacred the day to all his followers? How did you feel pangs 



OUR HOUR ALONE 17 

of remorse about your heart as you smoothed her shining tresses back 
from her bloodless brow? How did you keep chafing the little thin 
hands that lay folded on the little bosom that would never again rise 
and fall in a sigh at any sorrow for the doll that never came? 

And then as you wandered to the quiet burial place the next 
Christmas, and sat you down beside the little mound — dear, sacred 
mound that hides her from your sight — your thought flies back to the 
Christmas before, and you say, "If I had known ; if I had only known." 

If your experience has been similar to this, then carping criticism 
will die upon your lips, and in your heart such love for helpless child- 
hood will glow as that which kindled in the Savior's breast that day 
He made so glad the hearts of Jewish mothers as He folded in His arms 
the little ones, and said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, 
and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Oh, 
sacred words ! Oh, blessed words ! to all of us whose darling little ones 
have gone through the "Gates Ajar," and will not be with us when 
the morning of Christmas breaks over the world. 

If such experience you lack, we can say thank God whose hand has 
dealt so kindly with you, but pardon us, your criticism may not be 
allowed. 

Dear reader, you have Our Hour Alone. Receive it as you will, but 
when we come to be buried, if no minister be there, ready with flatter- 
ing words, let some true friend but read it o'er the grave, and say for 
us, farewell ! 

Hope, Faith and Love 

Hope is the anchor that holds men when great storms are surging 
all about them, and nothing but darkness and gloom and anxious fore- 
boding can be seen, look which way they may. Hope points to fairer 
skies, to happier days, to brighter prospects. Hope lifts the shadows 
from the face, takes the sadness out of the heart, heals the sickness of 
the soul. Obliterate hope and you make a wreck of man, and he 
needs no argument to convince him that there is a place of endless 
torment. Where is to be the end of punishment, if hope be dead, never 
to be resurrected? Hope is the sunshine that lights up the cold, gray 
peaks of life ; it is the rainbow that spans the dark clouds, and reminds 
us of gracious promises ; it is the fire that warms the chilliness of life, 
and around which we gather to inspire new courage for strifes that 
we know lie before us, and which — plan as we will — cannot be avoided. 
With hope man is not — never can be — lost, and has in him all the 
possibilities of all the ages past, of the present one, and all that are yet 
to come. Take away the forest ; dissolve the landscapes ; wither the 
flower ; blot out the sun ; extinguish the stars ; dry up the oceans ; level 
the mountains ; let the earth swing in chaotic space, ' ' rayless, treeless, 



18 OUR HOUR ALONE 



herbless," but leave man the enthusiasm of hope, and he will smile, 
and looking out beyond these material disasters, will confidently expect 
he is not born to die. 

Faith is belief ; take it out of our life, and what have we to live for? 
We need faith in nature and her marvelous works ; faith in truth, that 
it will ultimately prevail ; faith in goodness, that it may lift us above 
the evils of life ; faith in human progress, that it will finally carry us 
beyond all that now clogs, and retards, and hinders; faith in our 
fellow-man that he is — as a whole — noble, brave, loving, just, true, 
sympathetic, kind and self-sacrificing ; faith in God, whose omniscience, 
omnipotence and omniprescence are so many guarantees that all things 
are ordered by Him, all things controlled by Him, all changes meted 
out by Him, and that serene above all interference, beyond all possi- 
bility of accident, beyond all peradventure of doubt. He is doing His 
will among the armies of heaven, and among the inhabitants of this 
earth; faith in ourselves, that all the possibilities for good that lie 
latent and dormant will yet be aroused to full and effective action, 
and that all the evil that clings to us in our fallen condition will be 
eradicated in that great and mysterious future about which we so 
earnestly speculate. Faith in education, in science, in philosophy, in 
government, in religion, in the triumph of right, in the rule of justice, 
in all that elevates, ennobles, lifts up, and carries forward. 

Love is the mighty conqueror. It unlocks the long-closed doors, 
turns them creaking on rusty hinges, open the shutters and floods every 
apartment with radiant light, fills every empty chamber of the heart 
with joy and gladness, causes us to reach out toward others, widens 
the circles of our lives until they touch other life circles, lifts us out 
of self, and teaches us the duties we owe to ourselves, to others, to 
God. Love is the great transformer, coming to change the very con- 
stitution of our being, and awakening new hopes, new faiths, new joys. 
God is love. Wondrous declaration. Man derives his being from God ; 
hence he is endowed with the capacity to love ; that capacity is the 
evidence of our divine origin. It separates us from the lower orders; 
it links us to those that are higher. Think of the friend love, the 
parent love, the brother love, the sister love, the wife love, and above 
all the mother love, pure, holy, unselfish, lasting, strong, unbounded! 
It is the least mixed with things of the earth, and is nearest to God's 
love. No love like the mother's love lasts and endures. 

Hope, Faith, Love ! A trinity that embraces all that man wishes, 
desires, aspires to. They give strength; they bring comfort; they are 
the sentinels that guard the avenues leading to and from the human 
heart. Let us seek to have them; let us strive to retain them; let us 
realize how much they have to do with the everyday duties of life, and 
how much they mean to those who are but pilgrims, and who realize 



OUR HOUR ALONE 19 

that life is but a vapor that appeareth for a little season, and then 
is lost to sight. 

The Church Imperishable 

The church of Jesus Christ is the most wonderful thing in all the 
world's history. It is the only thing in all this universe that will never 
show a vestige of decay. It is as grand, as sublime as its founder, 
and will be as eternal. It will be transplanted, but not destroyed. It 
will be changed from the church militant to the church triumphant, 
but it will have no semblance of disintegration. The chief cornerstone 
has been laid, and the capstone will be put on with shoutings of 
"Grace, grace, unto it!" 

The world has seen some great structures. The pyramids of Egypt, 
grand, vast, colossal, and hoary with the passage of four thousand 
years, one of them 746 feet on each side of the square base, 450 feet 
high, and containing 82,111,000 cubic feet of masonry, and one hundred 
thousand men toiling in its erection. It has been called "an eternity of 
masonry," but the sands of the desert are slowly but surely creeping 
up from its base, and it will yet be buried as deep as Herculaneum or 
Pompeii. 

Greece had its Acropolis, and on it the wonderful Parthenon; 
it cost $46,000,000 when money was just ten times as valuable as it is 
now. Think of it ! $46,000,000 ! It was the gem of Grecian architec- 
ture, and glittered in the sunlight, beautiful, exquisite, transcendent. 
In 1687 it was used as a powder magazine. A Venetian shell fell on the 
roof, and the glory of the magnificent structure was a ruin, 

Rome had her Coliseum, 612 feet in length, seats for 87,000 people, 
standing room for 15,000 more — 500 years of cruelty — but it is now but 
a stupendous ruin. 

Egyptian civilization gone ; Grecian civilization gone ; Roman civ- 
ilization gone, but the church survives, and flourishes amid a decay that 
has wasted and destroyed the most stupendous of the monuments that 
human skill has planned and human labor has accomplished. 

The battle of Marathon, the battle of Syracuse, the battle of Arbela, 
the battle of Metarns, the battle of Yarns, the battle of Chalons, the 
battle of Tours, the battle of Hastings, the battle of Orleans, the battle 
of Armeda, the battle of Blenheim, the battle of Pultowa, the battle of 
Saratoga, the battle of Valma, the battle of "Waterloo, these have 
changed the destiny of a world, and yet the church has exerted an 
influence greater than them all. 

The mightiest structures live only in their ruins; the most impor- 
tant battles live only in history ; but the church of God shows no 
semblance of decay; it lives now, and will live amid the wreck of 
matter and the crash of worlds. 



20 OUR HOUR ALONE 



Peace on Earth 

More than eighteen centuries have come and gone into the silent, 
misty, dim and fading past, since the lonely shepherds, watching their 
flocks on the lone Judea hills, saw the wonderful star, and followed 
its guiding light until it came and ''stood over the manger where 
the young child lay." Here was the beginning of a new era. 
Here was the dawn of a better day for humanity. Here, indeed, 
was the "Ringing out of the old, and the ringing in of the 
new," Here, as at the approach of the natural day, a star appeared, 
attracting the attention of the lowly tenders of the flocks, and they 
hesitated not to follow it over the rugged hills, until they were per- 
mitted to kneel before Him who was to "be lifted up, that He might 
draw all men unto Him." Since that memorable night, when the song 
of the angels woke the slumbering echoes of those hills, stirring the 
hearts of the simple minded with a glow of holy enthusiasm, almost 
nineteen hoary centuries have stalked past in the mysterious proces- 
sion of time; kingdoms have risen and died; races have begun and 
ended ; religions have been founded and perished ; long processions of 
kings, nobles, heroes, conquerors, scholars, priests, philosophers, sages, 
have come, stalked their brief hour upon the mimic stage, and gone; 
cities have been built and crumbled; books have been written, and 
today they are lying on the shelves of musty libraries, slowly coating 
with the silently accumulating dust of centuries ; generation after gen- 
eration of men have come from the mysterious and gone into the 
unknown; hope, joy, sorrow, despair, have rolled their surging tides 
over men, women and children, and yet the anniversary of the natal 
morn of Christ is celebrated wherever the story of the cross has been 
told, and all classes and conditions of people hail the approach 
of the merry Christmas times as the season of joy, of gladness, 
and the giving of gifts. The children of today listen to the 
story of Santa Claus, and look with open-eyed wonder on his 
beautiful and wonderful gifts, and speculate on how he got down 
the chimney, or through the diminutive key-hole. Ah! Happy, 
trusting, confiding childhood! Let them believe it; let them not 
be rudely awakened from such pleasing dreams; do not cast the 
dark gloom of reality over this picture of fancy; all too soon will 
be the awaking; the battle of life is not fancy, but fact; not poetry, 
but prose ; not songs of ease, but commands that we must obey. Gather 
the children, then, into the churches, around the family circle, In the 
school room, everywhere, and tell them the wonderful, the beautiful, 
the touching story of the birth of Christ. Let them catch visions of 
angels and shepherds, and worshipers ; let them hear the echoes of that 
voice — the voice of Him who "spake as never man spake" — chiming 
down the corridors of the centuries, sweet, pleasant, gentle, mild and 



OUR HOUR ALONE 21 

loving as it was when He held those familiar talks with His disciples ; 
when He entered into the temple and taught ; when He sat on the mount 
in the presence of that vast multitude and delivered that immortal 
sermon that has never been approached by the utterances of mortal 
man. Let them see Jesus at the well, talking with the woman of 
Samaria; let them see Him restoring the widow's son; let them see 
Him in the house of Mary and Martha, whose brother, Lazarus, He has 
just called back from the grave; let them see Him in the garden of 
Gethsemane ; let them see Him before Pilate ; let them follow Him up 
the steep ascent of Calvary ; let them see the sun veiled in a mysterious 
eclipse ; let them feel the rockings of that terrible earthquake ; let them 
behold the bursting graves giving up their sheeted dead to take up 
their march through the tortuous streets of Jerusalem ; let them hear 
above the rumbling of the earthquake and amidst the gloom of the 
eclipse, that voice, crying, "Elio! Elio! Lama! Sabacthani!" It is 
more interesting than fiction ; it is more fascinating than story. It is 
elevating and grand. Such instructions never sowed the seeds of vice, 
never led to any crime, never wrecked a life, never blasted a home. 
Then weave the evergreen about the altar; put the gift of affection 
under the plate ; let the mails be burdened with the silent but eloquent 
messages of love. For away down the aisles of the future, when God 
fulfills His promises, that a "Knowledge of Him shall cover the earth, 
as the waters do the seas," as the glorious dawn of the millennial 
morn lights up the peaks and crags, the hills and groves of earth, mil- 
lions of glad children will meet on Christmas morning to take up the 
glad refrain that erstwhile broke the stillness of Judea's plains, 
"Hosannas in the highest, peace on earth, good will to men." 

Nature the Teacher 

Nature is the great teacher; she has a lesson for the learned and 
the ignorant, and she speaks to each in his own language — a language 
that is simple, because it is understood. She has no library, but she 
has all that has been presented to the mind of those who have written 
her teachings, and bound them in volumes. The student soon learns 
this lesson, that nature is never idle ; she is always at work ; she works 
by unerring laws, and all her changes are changes of method. Nature 
is a lasting, a continuous revolution. She is a constant change, in 
which is multiform variety ; but it is only revolution and change — it is 
never death. Day follows night, and night again takes the place of 
day, but day does not die; it simply changes place with night, and 
while we see it not, other eyes behold its light. Night is not lost, for 
when the king of day scatters its gloom where we behold it, its murky 
skies and simerian darkness settle on places beyond our vision. Suns 
rise and set, to us, but do they rise and set? Our infant knowledge 



22 OUR HOUR ALONE 



tells they do not. Stars come and go — now in the circumscribed 
horizon of our vision, and now far, far beyond; but do they cease to 
shine? The telescope comes in to aid the eye, and gives denial to such 
a thought. All heavenly bodies are but a revolution ; they are in con- 
stant change, but nowhere do they cease to be. The seasons are in 
revolution ; they are in continual change, but not a single one has yet 
been lost. Winter is said to be an emblem of death; but is it? Is it 
not rather the emblem of repose? Nothing in nature dies in winter's 
cheerless reign. And when the change is made, and spring comes with 
her potent resurrection voice, and stands beside the grave of tree and 
shrub and plant and flower, and in the words of Him who stood before 
the rocky cavern where Lazarus lay, utters the simple "Come forth," 
how is the lie given to the theory of death. How does the germ of 
life shoot up, and genial currents start, and : 

"Life and beauty everywhere, 
Are bursting into life." 

Yes, life and beauty, for they are not separable. But revolution 
continues, and summer comes to give symmetry to form, to change the 
blossom into fruit, to fill the bearded heads with wealth of grain, to fill 
the grass with juicy succulence, and start the droning hum of insect 
life. It is a revolution, — a change — but in it all no indication of death. 
Again a change, and autumn russets the apple, mellows the pear, 
makes solid the potato, hulls o'er the gluten of the grain, ripens the 
corn, tinges the blushing maples with crimson glow, and carmines the 
clumpy shumachs — perfecting all that nature has done, and yet it 
is but change — not death. Then winter comes again and shuts the 
forces of nature up, and locks them in his cold embrace — so like 
to death that only knowledge makes it certain it is not. That knowl- 
edge teaches us that it is not death — but rather rest, repose. And 
when we comprehend that all is thus but evolution — change — that 
nothing created is lost — that only changes come to shift the forms 
of life — that naught in nature dies — but only seeks rest — repose — 
who will dare to say that man can die? In youth we have our 
spring — with tender leaf — with bud — with beauteous, regal flower. 
In manhood summer — with its change from bud to leaf — from flower 
to fruit — from pulp to ripened grain. Old age is autumn — with per- 
fected results — with glorious beauty tinging every honest life — with 
wisdom 's garner full — and ample preparation made to meet that winter 
when rest — repose — the sleep that we call death shall wrap us in its 
mantle dark and cold. But spring will come, the beauteous, vernal, 
lasting spring that circles with all seasons round. And the eternal 
summer, warm — not with a transient sun, but an enduring heat — will 
perfect all our powers, those fruits that so adorn the mind. Then will 
the autumn come to tinge with an unfading splendor all the boughs 



OUR HOUR ALONE 23 

of the fair tree of life. And winter, no longer needed to instruct us 
in the power of a resurrection to come, will merge in these, and 
changed, yet not lost, will tone this trinity of seasons that will revolute 
through the eternal ages— revolute and change — but never die, for 
what is death but change ? 

"Stand Up" 

Just 1851 years ago, in Cesarea, dwelt a devout man who was a 
centurion, that is, had command of one hundred men called the Italian 
band. In a vision he was directed to send men to Joppa, and inquire 
for Peter, the apostle. He obeyed the direction given, and when the 
men returned, bringing Peter with them, the centurion, whose name 
was Cornelius, met him, and fell at his feet and worshiped him. But 
Peter took him up, saying, * ' Stand up ; I myself am also a man. ' ' 

"Stand up." This is a command. It was just as if Peter had told 
the centurion that man bowing down to man was degrading, and that 
there is but one being before whom man may prostrate himself and be 
elevated and that being is God. This is a logical conclusion, because 
man is the nearest to God — the immortal part of his fellowman being 
a spark of Deity itself, and if man is not to bow before man then he 
can only bow before God. "Stand up." As we read this bit of old 
history, some days ago, these two words fastened themselves on our 
memory, and they kept presenting themselves before us, and we could 
not but admire the independence that they suggested. Man was never 
intended for a slave. He has but one Master; all his fellows are his 
brethren. If the beggar on the dunghill has not as many rights as the 
king on his throne, it is not because there is any heaven-born distinc- 
tion between them, but because man has made a distinction in favor 
of the one as against the other. This distinction cannot degrade the 
beggar until he becomes a party to the wrong against himself, and 
bows in cringing servility before one who has no right not common to 
both, except so far as he may have usurped it. And how like the 
command of God himself would come these two monosyllables to call 
the beggar back to a realization of heaven-born rights, "Stand up." 
This king before whom he fell prostrate is but a man. How like a 
shrill shriek these words would echo in the ears of the miser as he 
bows before his golden god, to pay a willing worship! With what an 
emphasis might they fall on the hearing of the giddy votary of fashion, 
as she bends in devout devotion before the altar of her capricious 
goddess! "Stand up." How cause a paleness to fade out the flushed 
and fevered cheek of the gambler, as they called him to a sense of 
what a tyrannous oppressor the object he worships really is! Brave 
words these to whisper in the presence of those who are spending 
their lives in a selfish desire to satisfy their own animal want, and who 



24 OUR HOUR ALONE 



know no higher motive than seeking pleasure gives. How we do wish 
that we could shout these words loud enough to arrest the attention of 
every one in that vast army who, with bleared eyes, reeking breath, 
besotted visage, ruined health, weakened intellect, and reeling step, 
are marching in a pitiful array on the downward road to the worship 
of king alcohol, that tyrant devoid of pity, who laughs when innocent 
childhood suffers, derides the despairing wail of helpless womanhood, 
and exults in fiendish delights over the miseries of souls that he has 
sent to the drunkard's hell. Who is there with one spark of humanity 
in his bosom who would not shout Amen! could these words, "Stand 
up, ' ' but reach these unfortunates in such a way that they would heed 
them? Stand up for the right against the wrong; stand up for the 
weak against the strong; stand up for the oppressed against the 
oppressor. When temptations come, stand up ; when trials come, 
stand up ; when your convictions of duty tell you that you are in the 
right, do not hesitate to stand up. And now to those readers of the 
Banner who reside in the corporate limits of Yates City, let us say 
there is a time not far distant when you will be called on to vote for or 
against license for the degrading saloon, that octopus that reaches 
out to take the innocent boy and destroy his manhood, and make him 
a ruin, and may we not in all the earnestness of sincere conviction, 
with all the zeal of one who would save the erring, entreat you, if you 
are tempted to take a ballot in your hand for such a doubtful purpose, 
and thus prostrate yourselves before the giant wrong and crime of the 
age, to stop and determine if you do not hear these words of the 
impetuous Peter sounding along the past centuries, and saying to you 
in tones that may not be disregarded, ' ' Stand up, ' ' and do not dishonor 
your manhood by doing so foul a thing. 

More Sunshine Than Shadow 

Before this article is put into type by the fingers of the patient 
prmter. Thanksgiving day will be past. 

It is a commendable custom to set apart one day in which to return 
thanks to the Giver of All Good, for His care of our lives and property. 

Thursday has been appointed as a day to be observed by our people. 
The President has issued a proclamation, and the Governor has also 
issued one. The people will gather in the churches and spend an hour 
in solemn worship. That is, a part of the people will. A very large | 
number will spend the day with relatives or friends. It has been a 
glad day for a large majority of our people. Friends have met, families 
have been reunited, children have gathered at the old homestead, 
enemies have been reconciled, new friendships have been formed, new 
joys have been awakened. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 25 

We are right glad that God has given us this extra Sabbath, this 
sacred day in which we may stop for a moment, as it were, to recount 
a small part of the mercies that have been given us. 

It is too often the case that we get so engaged in the busy rush 
and whirl of life that we forget how much we have to be thankful for. 
The dark clouds are more noticed that they obscure the bright sun. 
The trials, the toils, the troubles of daily life are so many and varied 
that we are apt to forget that we have had a thousand blessings for 
every curse. An hour of joy for every moment of sorrow. An age of 
ease for every brief season of pain. Weeks of health for days of 
sickness. Months of prosperity for brief times of adversity. Long 
days of bright, soft, warm sunshine for short nights of darkness and 
gloom. Too often we forget the sweet, and remember only the bitter. 
How we are surprised when we stop to consider how blest we have 
been. Truly we can say, with the devout and worshipful poet : 

"Moments and mercies multiplied, 
Have made up all the day; 
Moments came swift, but mercies were 
More swift and free than they." 

Many of us can be thankful that our life has been spared during 
a year remarkable for accidents. Our health is good. No great calam- 
ity has overtaken us. We have mourned the loss of no dear one. We 
ha'.e had good homes, kind friends, plenty of food, comfortable 
clothes. The lines have fallen to us in pleasant places. 

But there are some who cannot say so. Accident, disease, death, 
loss of property, health, friends, all have overtaken them. Still we are 
sure if they have searched, they found on Thanksgiving some occasion 
to thank God that it is as well with them as it is. Many of the evils 
of life are but seeming evils. For many of the misfortunes that we 
mourned over a few short months ago, we could say devoutly last 
Thursday, * ' Thank God for them. ' ' No truer words were ever written 
than these: 

"And even should misfortune come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth; 

They let us ken oursel' 
They make us see the naked truth, 

The real guid and ill. 
Though losses and crosses 
Be lessons right severe. 
There's wit there, ye'll git there, 
Ye'll find nae other where." 

Thrice happy those who have the wisdom to give thanks for even 
the crosses of life. 

Some of us have gone through the deep waters of affliction. The 
death angel has spread his wings over our dwelling, and shut out the 



26 OUR HOUR ALONE 



sunlight of hope, and our loved ones have faded from our sight. Age 
has tottered to its final rest. Manhood has lost its strength, and sleeps 
the last long sleep. Beauty has faded and now is lying silent on the 
eternal hills. Youth has forgotten its vigor, and has gone to make its 
bed with the great, silent throng. Infancy has ceased its prattle, the 
smile has faded from its thin lips, the little spark of life has gone sud- 
denly out, and with tear-dimmed eyes, and bursting hearts, you have 
laid the dear, cold clay to rest, heaped a mound of earth over it, and 
have gone back to a desolate home— to grieve forever? Oh, no; but 
in many instances to thank God that you have fathomed the great deep 
of paternal woe ; to rejoice that they are safe in the fold. 

No more sincere thanks have gone up on the annual day of praise 
to God for blessings given, than has gone up from the hearts of 
parents who have lifted up their hearts in gratitude to God for the 
memory of the loved and lost. 

As we sit here in the deep silence tonight, with no sound to break 
the solitude of night, but the deep wailing of December wind, our 
thoughts go back to the dear little blossoms that opened and faded 
in our arms years ago, and they are with us in memory once more, 
while a tell-tale moisture dims our eyes, as we lift up our hearts in 
deep gratitude to God, and thank Him that the dearest spot in all 
the universe, to us, is where four little mounds of earth are being 
swept by the bleak blasts that are howling over the earth. 

Happy are those who have been able to say, "Thank God that 
it seems well with the living," and have been able to add, "Thank 
God that we are sure it is well with the dead." 

Dear reader, the musings of this Hour Alone may touch a tender 
chord in your heart; but if you will retire to silent solitude for but 
one hour, and give the time to the memory of the past, we feel sure 
that you will find every chord in the "Harp of a thousand strings," 
all tuned to the beautiful harmony of Praise and Thanksgiving. 

The Old Copy Book 

"No man was ever great by imitation." These words come back 
to us like the remembrance of some strain of music heard long ago, 
and for a time forgotten. It was somewhere away back in the dim 
uncertain past — perhaps in the old log school house near the New- 
comb place — that our eye first fell upon this sentence, as it is at the 
head of this article. Perhaps we first noticed the difficulties of the 
capital N, M, G, B, and I, that loomed up with such formidable aspect 
on the clean, white page — clean and white then — but alas! sadly 
marred, blotted, and disfigured, before our hieroglyphics were traced 
on the lines on that — to us — interminable page. "No man was ever 
great by imitation;" it does not occur to us that we understood a 



OUR HOUR ALONE 27 



word of it; indeed we are pretty positive that we did not; at least 
there is no doubt but what our mind was badly befogged by the word 
"Imitation," but then it had some easy letters in it, and we rather 
liked it before we got done; besides we supposed that the teacher 
knew all about it, and somehow or other — it was not clear to us 
how — we expected the teacher would be with us all along the pleasant 
journey of life, and if we ever really cared to know the meaning 
of it — which we certainly did not then — why, we would ask. 

Of course we got familiar with the copy before we got down the 
long row of lines, but our real knowledge of the quotation — but bless 
you, we never dreamed that it was a quotation — far from it; we had 
an exalted opinion of the teacher, and were firm in the belief that he 
was not only the greatest man living, but no such man ever had lived 
before, and we supposed that he just whittled his quill and then 
picked out these words from millions that he had stored away in the 
back of his head, and wrote them on our copy book, so "awfully" neat 
and pretty, that we never expected to be able to write half so well — 
and we never have. If all our later expectations had been half so 
well filled, we would perhaps not have been spending this Hour Alone, 
in which case we would have lost pleasant time indeed, for the 
memory of that old copy recalls faces long forgotten, and calls up 
forms that have long since rested from the cares of life. But we only 
mention this incidentally ; the reader will no doubt see a similar picture, 
differently shaded and colored, perhaps, but still deeply interesting. 

The drift of our thoughts tonight seems to indicate that there 
is a vast amount of information in that old copy. And while we 
never could get the artistic flourish to the N or M, or yet get the loop 
on the G, to pass our own partial criticism, we feel that our reading 
and observation both go to sustain the truth of the proposition, 
"No man was ever great by imitation." 

Originality is the first great mark of true genius; lacking that, 
we become but an amanuensis, writing out splendid sentences that 
great men have evolved from brains that needed not to borrow from 
others. 

It has been truly said that "Shakespeare's greatness consisted not 
in his being unlike other men, but in his being like every other man." 
But in this consisted his lack of imitation. Among the millions of 
earth, no two heads can be found alike in shape ; as well try to 
fashion them after one model as to imitate greatness. 

Every one has a niche to fill in the great temple of the world. 
No other person can fill it, or do his work ; neither can he accomplish 
his own if he attempt to fashion his life after some impossible model. 

If we attempt it, our lives will be miserable failures ; but if we are 
content to simply be ourselves, then are we on the sure road to fill 



28 U R HOUR ALONE 

our niche, whether it be near the foundation, or high on the dome of 
the temple of the world. 

But before we close let us remember that while genius may be 
eccentric, that eccentricity is not genius. And that it is very true 
that those qualities we do really possess, never make us half so 
ridiculous as those we pretend. And that, while it is laudable to 
emulate whatever is good, it is impossible to rise to distinction by 
mere imitation. 

Dark Skies and Fair 

Sometimes in the busy struggle of life, and while we are fighting 
its often-times unequal battles, we are led to believe that virtue has 
no reward, and wrong no avenger. It seems to our short and defec- 
tive sight as if "justice had fled to brutish beasts," and that oppres- 
sion had received a life lease on every human being. And it may 
be true that in some degree there are grounds for these apprehensions ; 
but when we let thought have free access to every department of 
scientific research, we learn the dark hours in life often resemble 
the dark, gloomy, cheerless days that come in every season. During 
these days the sun is hidden from our view; storms arise; tempests 
howl ; torrents pour down ; blinding drifts drive before fierce blasts ; 
thunders roar and vivid lightnings flash, and it appears as if nature 
were mad, and in her insanity had unchained the fierce elements that 
they might combine to work ruin and devastation. But other days 
come and the scene is changed; the skies are serene and clear; the 
winds are but a whisper, that toys with the tiniest leaflet ; the thunder 
has died away; the fire of the lightning has gone out; nature is 
rejoicing in loveliness and blooming in splendor. It is plain to us 
now that chaos was but momentary, and rather apparent than real; 
that all the time while we were shrouded in the thick gloom of the 
dismal valley, there were grand mountain peaks whose pinnacles 
were bathed in perpetual sunlight, and whose serenity was not ruffled 
by a blast. 

It is thus with life. There are deep, dark, desolate valleys where 
the blue sky is shut out, where damp cold fogs settle around us ; where 
storms rage, and fierce blasts assail us, and we imagine, for the time, 
that sunlight has departed forever. But if we keep right onward 
in the path of duty, we will get away from these uncomfortable sur- 
roundings, and find ourselves on the pinnacle, with the radiant sun 
shining full upon us, and the darkness is driven from our lives, 
and we feel a new strength imparted and start forward — it may 
be to descend into another valley, — but we go with more faith in 
human virtue, more reliance in justice, in right, in God, yes, and in 
humanity, than we ever had before. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 29 

The storms that sweep over the earth snap off some tender plants 
and beauteous flowers, beat down the brambles, and break the defec- 
tive trunk, but they strengthen the sturdy oak, send its roots deeper, 
and spread its branches wider. So likewise the storms of life dis- 
courage the weak and the timid, while they but serve to strengthen 
the really brave for the duties of life. 

Nothing happens by chance. A supreme intelligence, guides sys- 
tems, worlds and men. Eternal love never fails. Eternal justice never 
slumbers. Eternal goodness never wearies. Human ambition can 
never overreach the appointed bounds. Life's limited span is all 
too short for man to undermine the pillars of the great temple where 
justice sits to guard the rights of man. Clouds may come, but they 
will vanish, and in the clear sunlight of Hope and Love and Truth, 
man's progress will be onward and upward toward the Great Eternal. 

The Poet Burns 

ARTICLE I 

On the 25th of January, 1759, some two miles south of the town 
of Ayr, in Scotland, in one of the humblest cottages known to the 
peasantry, — a cottage built of clay, — was born Robert Burns. His 
father was not rich, but he was, for all that, a remarkable man ; re- 
markable alike for his honesty, his deep, reverent, religious feeling, 
and his peculiar power of understanding human nature. It has been 
remarked by some one, "that such a father is seldom found in any 
rank of society; and was worth descending far in society to seek." 
It is said that Robert was an apt scholar, and that he evinced that 
sturdy independence of character, that keen insight into human feel- 
ing, and that love for nature that has so colored all his writings. 

It would, perhaps, be impossible to imagine a position more dis- 
couraging, or circumstances more unfavorable, than those which met 
the young poet on the very threshold of his career. Born in obscurity 
and poverty, and destined to remain in that condition through life, he 
had but little to encourage him in the great task that he accomplished. 
The lyre of his county had long been unused to the touch of a master 
hand. Furgeson and Ramsey had caught a glimpse of that which, 
in the life of Burns, became a glorious vision. The pipes of Scot- 
land that responded but feebly to their touch, startled the world 
when the fervid breath of his matchless genius was poured in all its 
impulsive vehemence upon them. It remained for him to touch with 
his magic wand the humblest subjects, and they, at once, assumed 
a grandeur and beauty unlooked for in their situation. It had been 
supposed that education, and constant intercourse with the grander 
and more soul inspiring scenes of nature, were requisite to develop 



80 OUR HOUR ALONE 

poetical genius, and cause it to bud, blossom and bear fruit. But this 
illusion was dispelled when Burns, comparatively without education, 
without leisure, and while in the discharge of his duty as a farmer, 
where but little of the majestic in nature was presented, cast the 
lambent flame of his inimitable and impassioned genius full on the 
commonplace things and individuals that surrounded him, and in- 
vested them with the unequaled richness of his coloring, true to 
nature, because it was nature's self. 

Who, like Burns, could have interested millions in the "Daisy" 
that was turned under by his plow share? Who, like him, could have 
created sympathy in the hearts of multitudes for the homeless 
*'Mousie" that had been deprived of its shelter by the upturning of 
his furrow? 

It were not so difficult a task for a Shakespeare to attract our 
attention to gilded courts, noble courtiers and worshiped kings; but 
it was no easy thing to invest the "Highland Lassie" in kilted gown, 
with such interest as would engage the attention of all classes of 
society. Yet this is just what Burns has done. Instead of being ele- 
vated by the things that he found in nature around him, he elevated 
those things that were the most commonplace, until others could 
see them from his standpoint, and, with his eyes, behold their hitherto 
hidden beauty. 

Burns did not lead his countrymen to some far off land, or invite 
them into the bewildering realm of imagination, but he held up to 
their gaze the very things with which they were the most familiar, 
and in the simplest language talked of them, until they were trans- 
formed into objects of beauty, or became heroes that all could wor- 
ship. 

It is not, for a moment, to be supposed that the stores of his 
versatile mind were exhausted. In fact the very peculiar mental 
construction of Burns precluded the possibility of any extended effort. 
Hence, we have, from him, no studied or labored work. His efforts 
were desultory, and he lightened up his subject with the bright 
effulgence of his vivid imagination, rather than to engage in labored 
effort to create something that did not exist. What he might have 
been under different circumstances we do not care to inquire, for under 
them he would not have been Burns. 

The fact that while but little more than a century has elapsed 
since his birth, and yet he and his poems are almost all that is known 
or remembered of his time, is evidence that his was one 

"Of the few, the immortal names, 
That were not born to die." 

Cut off in the prime of his scarce mature manhood, he died almost 
neglected, at the age of 37 years. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 81 

It will be noticed by our readers that we admire the master of 
all the poets; but that admiration does not blind us to the fact that 
he had faults, and faults, too, of no ordinary magnitude. But in our 
allotted hour it is not possible to touch on his virtues, much less to 
attempt to discuss his defects. But it may be truthfully said of him 
that he was free from imitation, and always true to nature, and hav- 
ing said this we have, no doubt, reached the very foundation of his 
undying fame. 

If we can resume these random thoughts at our next opportunity, 
we will touch upon some of his distinguishing features in poetry, 
trace the record of his short but eventful life, and — if it be possible — 
invest the sad story of his closing years with something of the pathetic 
interest it will have when the coming years will have given him the 
full measure of a fame that is, as yet, but half comprehended. 

ARTICLE II 

Robert Burns was a great man, and no man was ever great that 
did not differ from the mass of his fellow men ; indeed he must, from 
the very nature of the case, show some marked distinction showing 
that he was not only among them, but not of them. In this light 
Burns was beyond all his compeers. While he was in the midst of 
them, he still was separated by an immeasurable distance from them. 

There never has, nor never can, exist a poet but must be man. 
Hence in looking at the life of Burns, he must be judged from both 
standpoints. It will not, we apprehend, be seriously denied that a 
large share of that which is credited to genius, in after years, during 
the life of the subject is called, if by no harder name, at least idiosyn- 
crasy. In fact it is to be doubted if there be any distinction between 
the higher order of genius and madness, except that "there's method 
in the madness" of genius. 

If we admit this, then we will not be expected to take the posi- 
tion that Burns was perfect in anything. Not even for his poetry 
would we feel disposed to set up so absurd a claim. So much being 
granted, we would not dare to claim for him as a man, any degree 
of perfection. 

It is not for us to deny that under different circumstances Burns 
would have been an entirely different man: but we have already said 
that under different circumstances he would not have been Burns, 
at least not the Burns that we enthusiastically love, and so deeply 
pity. 

But while such is the case we are not willing to admit that he 
was all that his enemies have loved to depict him. His writings, 
whether poetry or prose, are a glossy mirror in which his overflowing 



82 OUR HOUR ALONE 

kindness of heart is reflected in a way that can never be mistaken. 
That he was not what we would term a Calvinist, no one would attempt 
to deny ; still no one can read his poems and draw the conclusion that 
he was an atheist. The "Cotter's Saturday Night" could never have 
been written by one who was a disbeliever in revealed religion. In 
fact all his writings partake too much of the mercy, justice and spirit 
of Him who "spake as never man spake" to have been evolved from 
the dull, cold calculations of he who not only doubts, but reaches that 
point where doubt is not needed. 

That he believed strongly in the manhood of man, and that, too, 
when divested of everything but what nature gives, can scarcely 
be doubted. If such had not been the case he never would, yea, 
more, he never could have quoted: 

"An honest man's the noblest work of God." 

Neither would the literature of the world ever have been en- 
riched by the matchless production 

"For a' that, and a' that." 

Burns was, without doubt a strong believer in the rights of man. 
That he was licentious, in the common meaning of that term, 
is too preposterous to need refutation. His treatment of Jane Armour 
should forever silence such a slander. 

One more thing we wish to speak of, and that is the charge that 
he was dissipated. It is not for us to deny that he indulged to 
excess; but it was the fault of the age, and more perhaps of his 
peculiar organization. Still those who charge that this vice cut 
him off in the prime of life, shows that such was the case. A soul 
so sensitive and a body so sympathetic to every impulse of that soul, 
could not but waste vital energies, especially when poverty and neglect, 
twin monsters to such as Burns, were united to drive him from a 
world that was but little worthy of such a noble spirit. 

It is doubtful if Burns ever saw a woman he did not love. That 
he ever refused to drink when he was sober is still more doubtful. No 
wonder, then, that his was an unsettled life, full of cares, disappoint- 
ments and bitter regrets. But that he felt all his defects, and was 
conscious of their serious nature is certain. That he made no strenuous 
effort to suppress, or even to control them, is no less certain. That 
wealth would have bettered his condition we do not believe; or that 
a full recognition of his merits would have been best for him, we 
are not prepared to admit. 

How much he is to blame for peculiar physical organization, or 
mental weakness, those things over which he could have no control, we 
leave others to judge. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 88 

And here we rest this part of the subject for the present, hoping 
that if our readers can not approve our criticisms, they will not con- 
demn until they have given the subject the most careful thought. 

ARTICLE III 

It has already been inferred by our readers that we consider 
Burns a genius; not only is this inference correct, but we consider 
him a genius of the highest order. Of his life and actions we have 
freely admitted that his faults were many and grievous. But at 
the same time, we have tried to defend his memory from some 
of those fouler aspersions cast upon it by envy or malice. In the 
same way we intend to speak of him as a poet. That is, while 
we do not expect to closely analyze his faults, we intend to 
remember that they exist, and it will be our aim to so speak of 
his excellencies that others may do as we do, see his faults standing 
out in bold relief, but appearing in the background of his life picture 
such a marvelous array of good, grand and noble things, that these im- 
perfections will appear but as the small weeds that, on close inspec- 
tion, can be found in almost every field — even well tilled fields — 
while his merit is a rich, bountiful harvest of golden grain, nodding 
in the breeze of time, and just ready to be garnered. 

It is not so easy a task after all, to determine what was the extent 
of Burns' ability, or yet on what particular line to look for his greatest 
excellencies. His songs, so simple and country like, breathing as 
they undoubtedly do, the very essence of poetry, might be taken as 
the point in which he most excels. It has been hinted before in 
these papers, that his crowning merit consisted in the fact that he, 
himself of the common people, could take the people and thing of 
most humble origin and station and invest them with an interest 
not only for his own class, but for all other classes as well. 

It has been claimed that he had but little genius in reaching out 
into the world of fancy, that world where the poet finds his widest 
field, and more often draws his largest measure of enduring fame. 
But when we carefully examine the plot of "Tarn O' Shanter," 
''Address to the Deil," "The Twa Dogs," "Death and Dr. Hornbook" 
and that inimitable production, "The Vision," we are forced to the 
conclusion that Burns was amply capable of soaring in the field of 
fancy, and not only that, but also that he would return from these 
flights laden with the rich treasures his own matchless genius would 
gather. 

"The Vision" we think remarkably fine. The dreary winter day 
has closed; the "hungr'd maukin" has gone out to seek food; the 
poet himself, weary with "flingin' the thrasher tree," is nestling in 
the inner room; he muses there in dejected loneliness, amidst the 



34 OUR HOUR ALONE 

vexing smoke from a peat fire; the "ratton" is playing his pranks 
and uttering his "squeak" about the ridge pole; in the midst of 
this uninviting picture sits the poet: 

"All in this mottle, misty clime, 
I backward mused on wasted time, 
How I spent my youthfu' prime, 

And done nae thing. 
But stringin' blethers up in rhyme. 

For fools to sing." 

After looking back over his past life, a life of poverty and toil — 
remember he was not yet recognized as a poet, — and then looking 
forward into the misty but dark future, he involuntarily laid bare 
his hopes and fears in this verse: 

I started, muttering, blockhead! coof! 
And heaved on high my waukit loof. 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or same rash aith. 
That I henceforth would be rhyme-proof, 

Till my last breath — 

Just at this point appears the "vision," and at once the poet is 
lifted above the cares and ills of life, and enters on his description 
of the "vision," runs in imagination over the history of Scotia's 
heroes, 

"Gods in war, and geniuses in song." 

Then as if inspired — and who will dare say he was not — he breaks 
into that matchless and inimitable peroration — if the readers will par- 
don the use of peroration in this connection — opening: 
"All hail! my own inspired bard!" 

No one can get down to the true merit of "The Vision," take 
in the surroundings of the poverty stricken bard, note his failures 
in life hitherto, his obscurity, his small prospect for fame, and not 
stand astonished in the chill chamber, dark as an underground cave, 
and not realize that a sparkling diamond is shedding a glitter, not 
only in that poverty stricken chamber, but that its radiance is, even 
now, reaching out toward the coming years, and making bright and 
glorious the future history of Scotland and the world, as well as 
illuminating the stars in the crown that coming generations were 
about to place on him who has so well earned the title of "King of 
Rustic Bards." 

It is impossible to read those, we repeat, and not be convinced 
that had Burns lived to overcome the perhaps too ardent fire of youth, 
and then turned his giant mind to the realm of fancy, he would have 
added much to the richness of poetic imagery, and invested his honored 
name with still more of intense interest to those who already bow 
in ardent though sensible worship at his shrine. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 35 

The Call of Duty 

Here we are, grinding at a task, just one hour after midnight, and 
long after all sounds of activity have died out. It is scarce in human 
nature not to rebel, as we look around us and see: 

"How things are shared." 

But fate is an inexorable taskmaster, and a wife and children, 
whose dependent condition would appeal to the sympathy of man in 
general, is a terrible incentive to over exertion, when it appeals to 
the glowing heart of affection; sanitary laws are forgotten, or, if 
remembered, are unheeded. The absence of motive would soon lead 
to the cessation of action. Hence man is so constituted that some 
want comes up to prompt to action, and rouse dormant energies to 
exertion. Ambition nods; its votaries obey. Fame hangs out her 
banner far up on the steep declivity of time, and mistaken zealots 
spend the best years of life in an endeavor to reach, or, at best, reach 
it just as their tottering steps are on the brink of the narrow house. 
Avarice jingles a few paltry coins, and multitudes sacrifice ease, 
health, honor, nay, even life itself to grasp in the feeble hand of age 
the tinkling symbols of man's supreme folly. Revenge invites the 
wounded soul, and all at once discretion is forgotten, caution disre- 
garded, prudence mocked, and man rushes to certain doom. Lust 
shows her gilded bait, and man forgets purity, honor, truth, justice 
and God, to gratify sensual desires, that gratified, destroy both soul 
and body. Fear turns her magnifying lenses full on the objects that 
are before us, and we hesitate, tremble, turn back from sacred duty, 
and violate every code of moral obligation. Love colors the dull, cold, 
uninviting things around about us, and how highly colored those 
scenes become. All of these may be followed by blind zealots, urged 
on by a love of self, and animated by no noble purpose. But let 
affection, such as that which binds the truly wedded to each other, 
the mother to her child, the father to his offspring, the brother to the 
sister, the sister to the entire family, be the motive that induces to 
action, and how terribly in earnest we become. It is the noblest, 
the truest, the best of all motives that appeal to human hearts. No 
wonder, then, that many are performing weary tasks even now, as 
the shrieking whistle breaks the stillness, telling us that two hours 
of another day is already past. While we still ply the busy pencil, 
and rejoice that our little world, the family whose welfare is the 
object of our life, is resting in peaceful slumber, and that we have 
the ability and strength to provide for their wants and shield them 
from the rough blasts of life. 

But how have we wandered! Afraid are we that we put our 
pencil point to these pages ready to complain that our taskmaster 



36 OUR HOUR ALONE 



required these extra hours; but this one "Alone," causes us to arise 
glad to know that our lot is just what God intended it to be; glad to 
realize that He makes no mistakes; and happy in the thought that 
mayhap we have, in this silent hour, helped to lift the shadows from 
other hearts. Good night. 

The Lesson of the Seasons 

We are reminded that summer is passing. Time glides away so 
rapidly and almost imperceptibly that we have scarce begun to drink 
in the blooming beauty of the gentle spring, till she is called to give 
place to the teeming maturity of summer, and ere we are aware of 
it the decaying touch of autumn's gentlest beginning will warn us 
that decay awaits the most beautiful and lovely of nature's gifts. 
"Well is it if we are able to draw lessons of wisdom from the changes 
that are continually occurring around us. If they lead us to endeavor 
to so act in the future as to show that we have profited by the 
experience of the past; if they lead us to inquire if we have made 
the proper advances toward the object of our existence; whether we 
are stronger in virtue, in goodness, and truth, less liable to commit 
wrong acts and do unjust deeds, more ready to stretch out a helping 
hand to suffering humanity, more willing to east the blessed mantle 
of genuine charity over the misdeeds and shortcomings of those with 
whom the everyday duties of life bring us in contact, less likely 
to condemn, without close scrutiny, the opinions of those who differ 
with us, in religion or politics. Well is it if they cause us to remem- 
ber that the spring when we sow the seed, for our harvest of usefulness 
in life, will be quickly followed by the summer, when our sheaves 
ought to be garnered, that the autumn of life will too soon place 
his hand of decay on us and remind us that the golden time of 
opportunity is gone forever, and that the winter of death will come 
and force us to leave our records on the tablets of time, and take 
our places with those who rest from their labors. Well is it, then, 
if these changes of season cause us to search out, diligently, the will 
of Him who bids these seasons roll, and brings those varied changes 
over our earth ; if they teach us to turn the eye of thought from every 
page of nature's great book, upward to where its sublime and holy 
Author sits to rule the worlds, in wisdom, goodness and gentleness ; and 
if they teach us that we are individually responsible to Him for the 
use of the talents He has given us, and for the manner in which our 
life work has been done. 

But some one may say, "I know this is good advice, and there 
is room for improvement in me, but don't see what one so humble 
as myself can do, I see no chance for me to work." 



OUR HOUR ALONE 87 

My friend, have you tried to see? With the fearful amount of 
drunkenness, profanity, corruption and crime prevalent in this land, is 
there nothing for you to do? With thousands of little feet starting 
in the slippery paths of vice and sin, nothing for you to do? Go 
tell the drunkard there is a better way to spend time and money than 
he is doing. Go tell the one vrho is ignorant that wisdom is for those 
who seek it. Go tell the suffering — by simple acts of charity, that 
will speak to them in a language they can fully understand — that 
God's suffering poor have a large corner in your heart. Are you 
debarred from these things? Then speak kindly; O, there is a mighty 
power in kind words. Have you a neighbor whom you think is 
churlish ? Speak kindly ; perhaps the man may be only sad ; you 
don't see the great cross he is bearing; you may never have tried 
to lift the great load he is carrying ; he may have some private grief, 
don't try to wrest it from him, but speak kindly and you will be a 
worker. There may be some things in the family of your nearest 
neighbor that is hardly right, your near intercourse has led you to 
discover the skeleton in their closet — most families have one, a hid- 
eous, long, bony, frightful skeleton hid in their closets — if you have 
discovered it don't tell every one that you have seen it, heard its 
bones clatter, its joints creak, and heard it utter words that ought 
never be heard in the family circle; don't tell it and you will be a 
worker. A thousand deeds of kindness, a thousand acts of love will 
spring up before you, appear in your path, and urge themselves 
upon your notice if you are in the right spirit to take advantage of 
them when they present themselves. Ah, you say you "didn't think of 
it in that way before." Well, that is just the reason why I have 
said a word or two about it. I have been thinking about it, and I 
want all to think who read. But perhaps you are weary of my think- 
ing, and ask if I intend to write a sermon. Why, if you could see 
me now you would laugh at the idea of my writing a sermon. No, 
I fear I would be a sorry preacher, but thoughts come into the heads 
of those who are not preachers. Good night. 

Nil Desperandum 

There is a story told of four Australian miners, who had labored 
long and assiduously, but without reward ; they met one day, and 
after bewailing their hard lot, their want of luck and their desperate 
straits, three of them resolved to go down into the mine to take a last 
look before leaving the scene of their misfortunes forever. While 
looking around at the unpromising walls, one of the miners seized 
a pick, saying, ''Good-bye; I'll give you a farewell blow," and with 
that his pick sent the splinters flying. His trained eye spied a glitter 
on one of the pieces that fell at his feet; he examined it and found 



38 OUR HOUR ALONE 

it was gold. They now went to work, and in a short time unearthed 
a nugget. A glad cry went up, and the nugget proved to be worth 
$30,000. It was just when everything seemed the darkest to them, 
that light came ; just as they were beginning to doubt, that the reward 
came. On the site of the claim where these miners toiled and 
triumphed, is now found the splendid streets of the fine city of Bal- 
larat. We have sketched the outlines of this story for the reason that 
it contains a lesson that should be learned by every person. That 
lesson is epitomed in the sentence standing beneath the caption of 
this article, "Nil Desperandum" — never despair. We sometimes think 
that we are all like these miners; we are groping about in the dark, 
at best assisted by but the flickering rays of a puny lamp, and we 
toil and dig year after year, until we are ready to faint, and our 
courage is well nigh gone, and we feel as if it were better for us to 
lay by our implements and give over the unequal struggle, when a 
chance stroke of the pick reveals to us the hidden and sought for 
treasure, and we send up a glad cry, rejoicing that the lamp of hope 
has been relit, and that in the flush of our victory we are ready to 
cry out in rapture, "Nil Desperandum." A large number of young 
people will pick up this paper, read a portion or all of this article, 
and then think that this applies to these who are engaged in the active 
duties of life, but can have but little significance to such as are not 
yet settled. But in a very short time they, too, will find themselves 
in the mine, striking again and again against flinty sides, wishing, 
watching, waiting, toiling, tired, ready to give up and quit forever, 
sure that further effort is useless, and caring not for the future. It is 
then we wish them to strike once more into the rocky face of the for- 
bidding ledge, and as they see the glitter of the genuine ore, we wish 
to listen to their glad shout, and hear from their strained throats 
the welcome "Nil Desperandum." Life was meant for activity; it 
admits of but little leisure. It calls for earnest, active, persistent, 
effort; it is a hive in which there is but poor quarters for drones. 
Man may present a pleasant exterior, but there are but few who are 
relieved from the trials and hardships of life, and there are but few 
who do not need again and again to brace themselves for the conflict, 
strain every nerve for success, and cheer the darker, gloomier moments 
of life with the exclamation, "Nil Desperandum." Life is not all 
gloom, all shadow, all bitterness. It has its brightness, its sunshine, 
its sweetness, and we are right glad that more of sunshine than of 
shadow falls to the life of nearly every one; glad that "Hope springs 
eternal in the human breast;" glad that "Man's heaven erected 
face" was made for the "Smiles of love to adorn." But while all 
this is true, it is also true that we are all called to walk through dark 
valleys, walk over rough paths and drink of the "marrah of life," 



OUR HOUR ALONE 89 

and it is well for us to discipline ourselves to these things, and be 
able to say under all discouragements, "Nil Desperandum. " 

Pleasant Hill 

A week ago last Saturday, we went out to spend the night at 
Pleasant Hill, west of Farmington. In April, 1849, we first saw this 
spot; it is 36 years since then, and time has wrought changes in 
almost everything on which our eyes rest. Then great stretches of 
level prairie reached in every direction, till they merged in the scant 
strips of timber that belted the streams winding their tortuous ways 
toward broader streams, that, in turn, swept onward to the Father 
of "Waters. These prairies have all been turned by the plowshare, and 
fences and hedges separate them into farms on which have been erected 
tasty farm houses and comfortable barns. The sloughs, as they were 
called, are indeed in the same places, but so changed that one would 
scarcely recognize them; then they were bordered by rods of tall 
slough grass, and their beds were almost on the surface of the ground ; 
then they conveyed large quantities of water, and about every few 
rods had miniature lakes, in which could be caught a great many 
fish of no mean size, and many a rainy day have we patiently sat on 
their marge and enticed the finny tribe with fat angleworms or 
tempting grasshoppers. And night after night would we steal down 
and angle after the sly catfish, that was sure to nibble cautiously 
in the dark. Then there was a swimminghole in Smith's field, just 
south of where the cemetery now is, and there the boys were wont 
to congregate, after the labors of the day were done, and dive and 
swim as if that were the chief end of a boy, and we verily believe 
many of us thought so; at least we enjoyed the sport hugely, and 
but little thought of the great, busy, bustling world, with its cares, 
changes, responsibilities and sorrows, came to us there. There were 
the Browns, the Chapins, the Armstrongs, the Finks, the Saunders, the 
Douphmans, the Whitakers and the McKeighans, and perhaps others 
whom we do not remember. Where are they tonight? Most of them 
entered the Union army afterward and some of them went down 
amid the smoke and din of the battle, and were buried on the field, 
where for twenty years they have rested in silent graves. The rest 
are scattered over this vast country, some in Texas, some in Wash- 
ington Territory, some in nearly all the western states. If we knew 
the address of all, we would mail them a copy of this paper, and we 
feel sure that they would all gather in memory at the old swimming- 
hole, and be boys again for a time. But the swimminghole is gone — 
destroyed by the washing of the creek — the grassy edges have gone, 
and not a minnow now can be caught, while the sloughs have cut 
down through the muck, the top soil, and are now wearing deep 



40 OUR HOUR ALONE 

down into the first strata of clay, even in some places down entirely 
to the rock. And those catalpas, standing out in bold relief in the 
mellow moonlight of this splendid September night, spreading out 
their great branches and casting weird shadows, how they have 
grown! Butler planted them when he first broke the 60 acres on the 
north side of the road, and we have cause to remember them, for 
when they were but switches, not so large as the pencil we are now 
using, the rabbits came and cut them off as smoothly as you could 
have done it with a knife, in fact Butler insisted it was done with 
a knife, and worse still, with a jackknife that we and our elder 
brother carried to make hickory and willow whistles, and he came 
over and told our father, and he was about to settle with us, when 
Neil Brown, bless his old honest heart, came over and relieved us, by 
proving that the rabbits were guilty, Neil is living yet, an old man, 
now near the end of life's journey, but we are still grateful to him 
for helping us out of a scrape that, at the time, had little of sport 
for us, though we were innocent. Then we tried to think of the ones 
who used to be active in business: A. P. Saunders is still on the hill 
close to the school house — then a small brick — now a fine frame. 
James Jocobus is here, and Mrs. Chapin, but none others as we re- 
member them at this time. Then we look over on the knoll just on 
the line between the Butler and Chapin farms, and we see the monu- 
ments rising toward Heaven and marking the resting places of many 
of those we then mingled with. Here are the old, the young, and 
the middle aged ; they have been gathering there until there are a great 
many of them. Over there in a fresh raised mound is Andrew Berry — 
an old man just buried a few days ; in the opposite side lies Frederick 
Loomis, killed by a runaway team, long years ago, and just on the 
eve of his marriage with a beautiful girl — a romance nearly — but we 
are not writing romances. In another sweet spot lies Melissa Brown, 
once among those who trudged, light-hearted, over the clayhills to 
the old school house; she died in the opening years of womanhood, 
just as others had done before, and just as many have since, and as 
many will continue to die. There lies Butler's only daughter — but 
why stop to enumerate; here are men and infants; here are monu- 
ments and beautiful flowers; here are evidences that in death our 
friends are not forgotten. And are these the changes of but thirty- 
six years? What will be those of the next thirty-six? We think of 
the air castles we built, and the day-dreams we indulged in while 
hoeing potatoes over on the patch west of where the barn now is, then 
we turn to a convenient glass and see the silver hairs on our head 
and the gray mingling in our whiskers, we are spoken to as the "old 
man," and that our boys smile at our old fashioned ways, and we 
remember that more than half of our own family are on the "silent 



OUR HOUR ALONE 41 

camping ground," and that we have but a few new purposes in life, 
and only hope that our follies and errors are — like many of our 
friends — in the grave, and that some of those we met here in "lang 
syne" may be interested in this Hour Alone. 

An Appreciation 

"And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng, 
Rushed, chasing countless thoughts along." — Scott. 

A laudable desire to do something that will meet the approval of 
others, is to be commended. If we fail to awaken a responsive thought 
in the heart of our reader, then this hour will be spent in vain. The 
hope that we might lift the shadow from some heart, remove the 
gloom from some household, dispel the darkness from some despair- 
ing mind, renew the hope of some weary life, comfort some sorrowing 
one, point some needy soul to the source of comfort, relieve some dis- 
tressed one, warn the tempted, reclaim the erring, assist the weak, 
and admonish the unthinking was the prime motive that induced us 
to give the meditations of these silent and sacred hours to our readers. 
And we doubt not they would have been discontinued, long ere this, 
had it not been for the fact that several whose friendship we prize, 
and whose judgment we have confidence in, have told us that they 
took a deep interest in these articles, and felt that they were doing 
some good. 

It would be egotism in us, did we make this statement merely 
to gratify our own personal vanity; but we do not; as we sit here 
giving loose rein to thought, the idea has struck us that we too often 
withhold the just meed of praise, for fear that our motives may 
be misconstrued. 

There are many who go through life, scarce conscious if that 
life be not a complete failure, because no one has thought to tell 
them that their efforts are appreciated. This is, we fear, especially 
the case in families ; so accustomed do we become to the kind assiduities 
of the members of our own families, that we deem it not worth while 
to give expression to what we must feel, if we be not ingrates. 

The wife has been busy all day in ceaseless toil, preparing some 
comfort for the husband, a comfort that he really appreciates and 
enjoys, but he fails to speak the kind, gentle, loving words of approval 
that her ear longs to hear, and she realizes that, somehow, she has 
failed to enjoy the occasion as she expected. 

The husband has taken time from the cares of business, to pro- 
vide some token of love for the wife, a token she cherishes, but in 
the flutter of admiration for the gift, she neglects to speak the word 
that would be worth so much to him. 



42 OUR HOUR ALONE 

The brother and sister become so accustomed to sacrifices of 
personal comfort made for each other, that they forget to acknowl- 
edge these favors, and thus rob them of their most potent influence 
for gratification. In our relations as friends and neighbors, we too 
often forget to commend, and thus fail to attain to that degree of 
enjoyment that might be ours. 

For us, we have no desire to conceal the fact that these frank 
words of approval spoken by our friends are gratifying to us. The 
knowledge of their kind words of approval comes to us in some of 
our more trying moments, and lifts us above our difficulties, as they 
indicate to us that our work is not despised by all. And as we value 
those kind words, we suspect others do. And if they do, then is an 
avenue open for us to add much to the pleasure of others, and, at 
the same time, to the enjoyment of ourselves. , 

It would be folly for us to think that those friends meant to 
convey the idea that these articles were free from grave defects. Did 
we think so their utterances would not be so valued by us, nor would 
we have much faith in their judgment. Those articles are open to 
severe criticism ; many of them are prepared in great haste, and while 
we do not have that freedom from care that would enable us to remedy 
many of their defects. But while this is true, we are aware that 
some of them are not devoid of true merit, and that, by careful re- 
vision, they would be made much better. 

He who brings up living thoughts out of a heart where humanity 
never appeals in vain, a heart that feels for "others' woes," seldom 
fails to reach the hearts of others, and we have done this, if we are 
capable of judging. 

It was our intention to hint to our readers, that if they were as 
ready to speak a good word for the Banner when it meets their 
approbation, as they are to condemn when it does not suit them, that 
they would have a better paper; but thought has carried us beyond 
our destined space and trusting that we have touched a theme of 
thought for other minds, a mine from which much of love, and hope, 
and happiness may be digged by those who are willing to labor in 
it, we again bid you all a kind good night. 

The Patter of Rain Drops 

There has fallen a dreary, steady, drizzling kind of rain all day; 
and falling, as it has, on Monday, it is more than likely but the pre- 
lude to at least two more rainy days before the week is out. 

There is something peculiarly touching about the patter of rain, 
that we have never been able to fully explain ; but we remember that 
long ago when we were a mere boy, that we loved to go out into the 
grove, where the pine trees stood thick enough to form a green canopy, 



OUR HOUR ALONE 43 

and listen to the patter of the rain drops, until a kind of solemn sad- 
ness stole over us, and we felt as if the great pulses of the world had 
ceased to beat, and that we were emphatically alone. 

Indeed on such occasions it seemed to us that those peculiar 
feelings could never be described. 

Have you never dreamed some weird dream, — away back in the 
happy days of long ago — that had something so strange and solemn 
about it that it appeared to partake of awe and pleasure at the same 
time, and although you could remember every incident, or perhaps 
we should say you do remember everything down to the minutest de- 
tails, you can never bear the thought of telling it even to your most 
particular friend? Just such a feeling has come over us as we have 
stood under the umbrageous branches of some giant oak and listened 
to the incessant patter and drip, until we wished to see a human 
face, and yet we were loth to break away from the spell that seemed 
to bind us. 

Certain it is, we carry just such a sacred dream secret locked 
up in our inner self, that has demanded the relief of publicity for 
decade after decade, and yet we feel that it never will be told. Do 
you ask us why? Our answer must be, we are unable to explain it; 
we do not understand the mysterious workings of that unconscious 
state, when dreams are photographed on memory's canvas. It may 
be that in another state of existence, expanded and quickened powers 
may enable us to live and act and think with the rapidity that 
characterizes these dreams, and that pleasant ones are but preludes 
of heavenly beatitudes, while terrible dreams are but the dim and 
uncertain foreshadowings of that dread despair that is to seize the 
soul when banished from the presence of God. Alas ! that human in- 
vestigation should be so soon bounded by the impassable walls that 
shut out our finite vision. Alas ! that the soul returns from her loftiest 
flights, to find that she has been but beating her pinions against the 
bars of that cage that circumscribes the greatest and most lofty 
aspirations of man. Man may measure the stars; he may weigh the 
heavenly bodies as in the balance ; he may compute the cycles of time 
and demonstrate the exact moment when the eye of the alert astrono- 
mer will again catch a glimpse of such and such a star; but he is 
not able to explain the mysteries of his own being, nor can he de- 
termine why the faculties reach out, while the body is apparently 
unconscious, and grasp ideas and things that remain in memory al- 
though we can never tell whether they be of earth or heaven. Nor 
yet can we account for the fact that the patter of rain drops, are 
calculated to awaken such strange sensations within us. 

In addition to this peculiar feeling of loneliness that we have 
spoken of, we can never listen to dropping rain falling continuously, 



44 OUR HOUR ALONE 

for any length of time, without feeling a shiver of sympathy for those 
who are sleeping in the silent church-yards. It is useless for us to 
say that it makes no difference to them ; it is useless to attempt to be 
cheerful and think of them as glorified spirits; the thought of the 
countless dead; of the beautiful and lovely; of the tried and true, on 
whose lonely graves these drops are falling, comes to us like sad 
requiems from a world where sorrow for the loved and lost is the 
only knowledge. 

It is useless to ask if you, dear reader, have ever attended the 
funeral of some loved one on a rainy day; have you not stood by 
that open grave, and listened to the steady drip, drip of the water, 
and heard the duller thud, as the earth closed over the lost? We 
know you have. And we also know that the first rain after your 
dear one has been buried, is the saddest rain you ever heard. Let 
the father answer who hears the first dash of the storm that wets 
the clay over the form of son or daughter; let the husband answer 
as he realizes that it moistens the mound that hides the wife, tender, 
loving, and true ; but above all let the mother answer who is awakened 
out of the first fitful slumber that has come to bring blessed oblivion, 
for a time, of that sorrow that has well nigh bereft her of reason, and 
hears the rain patter on the shingles, then reaches out her hand to 
draw the infant to her l)OSom, and then returning consciousness tells 
her that it is out yonder among the marble monuments, and these 
drops are beating down into the earth that covers it. Oh, mother! 
we know how your poor, bleeding heart sank at the realization, until 
you almost thought it would cease to beat. 

But what have we been doing? When we took up our pencil 
to fill this alloted hour, the recollection of the incessant patter of 
the falling drops that have fallen all day, came up before us, and 
forced our thoughts into channels that we did not mean to follow; 
and we find that another day has been born, and it is time for us to 
say again, good night. 

"Oh Death, Where is Thy Sting?" 

"Oh, mystery of life! whate'er 

Thou art none knoweth, nor shall know, 
Until the tide of time shall roll 
Between the hody and the soul — 

Until each soul shall homewards go 
To that great home of which we dream, 
And life with Life-Eternal share. 

Beyond the stream, heyond the stream." 

Death is relentless, and visits every household. He enters the 
abode of man and he has no protection, no defense. It is his cold 



OUR HOUR ALONE 46 

touch that is placed on the wealthy, as he tosses on a bed covered 
with purple and fine linen; it is his skeleton hand that lifts the poor 
man from his pallet of husks and lays him in the dampness of the 
grave; he touches the tender infant as it nestles on the bosom of the 
fond mother, and the breath dies out forever; he comes to the youth, 
full of the vigor and sweetness of life, and he sinks into the oblivion 
of f orgetfulness ; he seeks out the strong man in his pride and lays 
his bony hand upon his arm, and life loses its charm, and he sinks 
out of sight as the wave ceases to roll ; he steals in silence over the 
threshold of the aged man, and puts the spell of his magic touch 
upon his dim eyes, smooths the wrinkles on his withered cheek, and 
he "wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to 
pleasant dreams." He enters the opening in the tepee, and the dusky 
warrior acknowledges his conqueror ; he pushes aside the paneled 
door in the residence of the famed general, and he who rode in calm- 
ness where death hurtled and carnage ran riot, sees that his hour is 
come ; he knocks at the door of the palace, and royalty loses its admira- 
tion for a scepter and throne; he comes to the rough door of the hut 
where poverty shivers in rags, and by his leveling touch the beggar 
is made the equal of the king. 

The earth is a vast graveyard; the world is a charnal house; the 
universe is a weeping gallery. Up yonder, where winds the sinuous 
Nile, we hear the universal wail that broke the stillness of the 
Egyptian morning, when the first born were lying cold and rigid and 
lifeless in every household; down here where rolls the Jordan, where 
Judea's hills lift up their heads in grandeur and sublimity, we listen 
to the bitter wail of Rachel mourning for her children because they 
are not; out yonder on the terrace of the palace in Jersualem stands 
the old king, and how pathetic his cry ! "0 my son Absalom ! my son, 
my son Absalom ! would to God I had died for thee, Absalom, my 
son, my son!" 

And today, wherever a river rolls in grandeur, wherever a moun- 
tain lifts its head in sublimity, wherever a plain stretches away in its 
beauty, wherever a forest waves the coronal of its branches, wherever 
the flower blooms in its loveliness, wherever the harvest shimmers in 
the sunlight — there the stillness is broken by lamentations for those 
whom death has cut down with his scythe. 

Is, then, this picture without aught of brightness? Is there no 
comfort for those who mourn the dead? When the grave hides, and 
tears flow, and sorrow fills the heart, hope springs to life, "we hear the 
flutter of a wing," that poising o'er the grave points upward to 
another world, where the loved and lost "dwell in their beauty for- 
ever." It shows us death is not an eternal sleep, and that there is 
a home "where far above hope, hate and fear they live all passion- 



46 OUR HOUR ALONE 

less and pure." Reason's dim lamp can penetrate but a little way 
the gloom that curtains the vale where rolls the chilling river; but 
revelation lifts the torch that sends its beams across the narrow gorge^ 
lights up the peaks beyond, and shows us glimpses of the better, purer 
world, where darkness is not, where death never enters and sorrows 
never come. 

"Not yet, the flowers are in my path, 

The sun is in the sky; 
Not yet, my heart is full of hope, 

I cannot bear to die. 

Not yet, I never knew till now. 

How precious life could be; 
My heart is full of love, O Death, 

I cannot come with thee. 

But love and hope — enchanted twain — 

Passed in their falsehood by; 
Death came again, and then he said, 

'I'm ready now to die.' 

'Tis but a mound, and will be mossed, 

When summer grass appears; 
The loved, though wept, are never lost. 

We only lose our tears." 

Parting 

That man is restless needs no proving, needs no statistics. Why 
he is so could not very easily be explained. That this characteristic 
is valuable — to a certain degree — is apparent. To it we are indebted 
for all the discoveries of islands and continents. Without it, much of 
the earth must have remained a wilderness, and primal forests would 
be swaying their umbrageous branches over many square miles where 
now nutritious grasses glisten with pearly drops in the morning sun- 
shine, rich grains nod in the warm breezes of the summer noons, and 
the broad blades of the dark green luxuriant corn rustle in the evening 
wind, as they uncurl from the heat of the fiercer noon rays, and pre- 
pare to gather to the center of the stalks the crystal distillations of the 
cooler night. 

It is this restless spirit in man that seeks to unlock every mystery 
of nature, no matter how cunningly she may have hidden it, nor how 
sedulously she may guard it. It has emboldened him to sail unknown 
seas, to cross trackless deserts, to climb almost inaccessible mountains, 
to delve the mine, to descend into ocean caves, to endure the torrid 
heat of the equator, to brave the frigid iciness of the poles, to court 
the dangers of savage men, to dare the ferocity of the wildest of the 
brute creation. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 47 

We see this same restless spirit manifested in the migrations of 
people from country to country, from state to state, from locality to 
locality, and in the changes that take place every spring in neighbor- 
hoods, and in the cities and villages everywhere. 

The present spring has witnessed as much of this as usual, and 
perhaps more. Some of the most pathetic partings that the observer 
witnesses may be seen at the depots of our railroads, as trains come 
in to bear away to distant homes those who have determined to cast 
their lots in other parts of the land. 

One of these scenes took place at a depot in a neighboring town 
a few days ago, and it was an episode that brought out much of the 
finer, and truer, and holier impulses of our nature — yes, our better 
nature. 

It was a case where three families were leaving Illinois for a 
locality near Red Cloud, Nebraska. One of them was composed of 
the father, mother, two boys, a girl, and a baby just able to toddle 
about, and who, happily, was too young to realize that the parting 
meant so much of real sorrow to those who were older. It was evident 
that the two families — those of the father and mother — were there to 
say farewell and Godspeed. It was the first real parting of their lives. 
They had, indeed, lived in separate houses, but they were adjacent. 
For months this event had been brooded over, talked about and dis- 
cussed. It had been looked at in every phase of it, until all seemed 
familiar with it, and reconciled to it. But when the train whistled, 
and the grips, the telescopes and the bundles were hastily grasped, and 
the bustle of getting away actually began, the bravado of the past few 
hours all vanished, the strangers — all disinterested — were forgotten, 
and sisters embraced each other, mothers clung to loved daughters, 
fathers said good-bye in husky voices, manly brothers wrung each 
other's hands in a silence they dare not break, and tears and sobs 
were evident everywhere in those groups. 

What thoughts of the old happy homes were there. How child- 
hood — free, happy, careless childhood — came back to those who now 
were burdened with life's care. What hopes for the future were 
visible. What foreboding. Hundreds of miles would soon separate 
them. Faces were vanishing, never more to be seen. Eyes were look- 
ing into eyes that would not flash recognition again on earth. If there 
be those who can witness such a parting scene, and not realize that the 
dearest ties of love and friendship are being sundered, they are to 
be pitied. Let us hope that no human heart is so hard, so callous, so 
lost to feeling as not to melt at such a scene. And if a tear of sym- 
pathy should fall, forbid it not. If life has much of joy, it has its 
sorrows too, and they must come to all — do come to all, and when we 
hope that all is well, and rosy hues o'ercast our fairest skies, the ten- 



48 OUR HOUR ALONE \ 

derest ties of life are sundered as we part with those we love where 
ways in life must part, or death creeps in with silent, stealthy tread, 
and robs us of our loved, and bears them from our tender, sweet 
embrace. Dear readers of the Banner, you have the thoughts that 
come to us in this. Our Hour Alone. 

Choosing 

There is scarcely a day in our lives that we are not called upon to 
choose. Sometimes we are called on to choose several times in the 
course of a single day. This is no easy task. Calculating the things 
that pertain to the future is environed with many difficulties. It is so , 
hard to tell just what one ought to do, and what they should leave I 
undone. It has been said that there are two kinds of prophesy — the 
one looking forward into the future, and the other looking backward 
into the past. This may be a correct definition, but if it is, there can 
be no hesitancy in declaring which of them is the easier to do. There 
be few of us who could not do better if we were permitted to go back 
and live over the year of our life that has just closed. We can see 
just what we should have done that we left undone, and just what we 
should have left undone that we did do. Every year of life we close 
up a set of books in which we feel that we have recorded a sad over- 
balance of mistakes that we would gladly rectify if we had the oppor- 
tunity, or, perhaps, more gladly blot out. But the books are closed, 
set up on the shelves, and are not to be opened. The fact is that in 
looking back we see plainly enough our mistakes, but we are power- 
less to rectify them, and it would seem that a knowledge of them but 
adds to the poignancy of our regrets that they have occurred. 

But as we take down the new set of books, at the beginning of 
another year, with a sincere desire to make a better showing, we cast 
our thoughts forward into the future, and how little we really can 
discern of what it contains for us ! "While the past is beyond our con- 
trol, how uncertain is the future ! We are as one walking in a dense 
fog ; we know something of what is behind us ; a thick and apparently 
impenetrable veil shuts out what is before us ; there is a little space 
about us, and that is all that we can be sure of. And with these dim 
uncertainties all about us, we are to continually choose. Nor is there 
any period of life exempt from the demands, nor free from the per- 
plexities. From early childhood to decrepit age we are making some 
choice. We choose to obey or disobey our parents; we choose those 
with whom to play in infancy ; we choose to gain knowledge, or to be 
ignorant ; we choose to labor, or to be idle ; we choose to imitate good 
or bad example ; we choose to have some object in life, or to drift into 
that state where we permit chance to guide us; we choose to be rude 



OUR HOUR ALONE 49 

or courteous ; to be well or ill bred ; to use good or bad language ; to 
be pure or impure; to be honest or dishonest; to form good or evii 
habits ; to be useful members of society, or to be worse than useless in 
the community; to have a good or a bad reputation. 

These are but a few — a very few — of the things we will choose 
in our earlier years. We will have made all these choices before we 
pass the age of eighteen. It is a solemn, an impressive fact that up to 
eighteen is the formative stage so far as character is concerned. If 
the choosing up to this period has been wisely done, there is great 
reason to anticipate that a good start has been made on the journey 
of life, and that our appearing in the world will at least do it no harm. 
If our choosing up to this period has not been wisely done, then, indeed, 
is there small hope that we will ever escape the consequences of the 
errors already committed. 

Another important consideration connected with our power of 
choosing is that it must affect others as well as ourselves. The choice 
of the child can but add joy or sorrow to the fond parent. If a child 
chooses to be ignorant, he adds a pang to the hearts of his parents; if 
he becomes vicious, he enhances their anxiety; if he be rude and 
uncouth, he increases their mortification. 

What is true of the parent, in this respect, is true of all those with 
whom we come in contact. Society is a cohering mass of individuals, 
each capable of choosing — nay, more — each compelled to choose, and 
yet all — to a greater or less degree — affected by the choosing of all 
the other individuals. 

It will thus be seen that what we choose to do is not, strictly speak- 
ing, our own business. As what we choose must affect others, what 
that effect will be should be a consideration with each before choosing. 

But while this relative position to those about us is by no means 
to be ignored, it is by no means the most important. It is the ques- 
tion of how our choice will affect us individually, that is most impor- 
tant. There can be no doubt but we are placed in the world for a pur- 
pose. There can be no doubt but all are destined for another state of 
existence. There can be no doubt but improvement is the duty of every 
one. If each will choose aright, and each will do right, then the indi- 
viduals, cohering to form society, will make a happy community. 

If this was the case we might give to earth the name of heaven; 
but it is not the case ; it was not intended to be the case. I am not 
here discussing why this is so; I am just stating a fact as I find it. 
Good and evil both exist ; man has a conscience that teaches the dis- 
tinction between good and evil. To avoid evil and to attain good is 
the duty of man. Nature's laws are divine. If we violate one of them 
we must suffer the penalty. If we obey them the reward comes in the 
obeying. 



60 OUR HOUR ALONE 

That is the best form of government where the interests and hap- 
piness of all are consulted and secured. 

That is the best system of religion that teaches the unity of God 
and the brotherhood of man ; that teaches exact justice to all ; grants 
equal privileges to all; teaches the largest charity; lifts up the fallen, 
makes better men, better women and better citizens. 

In our judgment the religion of the Bible is the only system that 
can ever elevate the human race. Therefore it is the duty of every 
one to give it serious consideration, and to be fully persuaded before 
choosing in so important a matter. 

An Incident 

Many of the readers of the Banner know that Maiden is a town on 
the Q. railroad, as all travelers on that line pass through it in going 
to and coming from Chicago. It is north of Princeton, and has nothing 
to distinguish it from any — or at least many — of the other towns that 
mark the from five to eight-mile stations on the ordinary railroad. 
But it remained for the town of Maiden to verify a statement made in 
the penned article of this series — "That some of the most pathetic 
scenes in life may be witnessed at some of these depots, on the arrival 
and departure of trains. ' ' 

If the reader cares to jog his, or her, memory, he, or she, will 
recollect that Wednesday, March 20, 1900, was a clear, bright, magnifi- 
cent day, for the time of year. It came after three or four cold, dreary, 
chilling, dismal days, and the contrast was so great that it put one 
in great good humor with himself and with all the world. It was a 
day — if one such ever comes — and who will say that they do not — when 
one could fulfill the scriptural injunction, "Forgive your enemies." 
There were the remains of snow drifts lying along the fence rows and 
hedges, and the tepid noon had melted them so that cute little rivulets 
were born, and went creeping over tortuous courses in their efforts 
to reach some outlet into some more pretentious stream that would 
carry them riverward, and, finally, seaward, to be lost in the waters 
of the mighty deep, that has almost as much of mystery about it as 
do these human lives of ours. It was a day to brood thought, espe- 
cially if one were alone — and one can be alone even on a crowded 
railroad train — just as the stranger can be alone in the crowded streets 
of a great city. 

The lazy hours had been creeping slowly by, one by one, as the 
train that pulls out of the Union depot at 11 :30 a. m. went rushing over 
the track, speeding toward Galesburg, and the hands on the face of 
the accurate timekeeper indicated 3 p. m^ as the whistle sounded, the 
brakeman called out "Maiden! Maiden!" and with creak, and groan, 
and crunch, and grind of the wheels the train halted at Maiden. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 51 

It was noticeable at once that something more than the ordinary 
was here. The platform was crowded with a well-dressed throng, and 
it was evident that something was exciting them to a perceptible 
degree. There was a subdued look — something akin to a sad look — 
on every face visible from the car window, and one fell to wondering 
if some prominent person or family was leaving the place, and these 
had come to say farewell. A couple of old people, with a number of 
both sexes, who were in the prime of life, pushed along toward the 
forward platform of the next car back, and a glance from the window 
fell on a handsome woman — perhaps thirty-five years of age — dressed 
in the deepest mourning, with black veil pendant, and eyes sad and 
swollen with weeping. As she stepped on the platform she was met, 
embraced and kissed by those nearest the steps. No word was spoken. 
It was a sorrow too deep, too tender, too sacred for the set phrases 
of speech. It was the meeting of the young wife who had sustained 
a great loss, with her father, her mother, her brothers, her sisters, and 
with the nearest kin of him she had so loved, and so recently lost. 
Let us draw a curtain over this scene. It is not an isolated case. It 
is witnessed somewhere, by somebody, every day; but it is none the 
less sad and sacred. 

It was not difficult to divine the facts, though, as yet, nothing could 
be seen to prove them. But the conductor's voice rang out, "All 
aboard!" the bell rang, the steam hissed and sizzled as if impatient, 
the tremor of moving wheels was felt, and as the train forged ahead 
it brought to view the express truck, the box containing the casket, and 
the men who were to bear it away. 

As the wheels regained the monotonous clank, clank, clanty-ety- 
clank in passing over the frogs a vision came to us. It was of two 
peaceful, happy homes in Maiden. In the one a dark haired little 
girl ; in the other a boy with chestnut curls ; they are playing together 
by the brook ; they are making mud pies ; they are plucking flowers in 
the meadow ; they are peeping curiously into the nest of the robin with 
the four tiny speckled eggs; they are going to school together; they 
are gliding hand in hand over the smooth surface of the ice. 

There is a change; I see a handsome black-eyed maiden; by her 
side is a manly youth; there is a strange, hopeful light in both pairs 
of eyes ; they are lovers. 

Another change; a wedding scene; all is joy, and mirth, and 
gladness : 

"There is no sorrow In their song, 
No winter in their year." 

Another change; the old homes are a glad memory; there is a 
new home born of the two old homes; it is a happy home; it is full 
of love, and full of hope, and — and who would dare to fear. 



62 OUR HOUR ALONE 

Another change; the strong man looks tired; his pulse is quick; 
his limbs are weak ; he has a lassitude that will not be shaken off ; the 
wife is alarmed ; the physician is called ; everything that love can plan 
and execute is done; it is hoping against hope; he has reached that 
spot where 

"The Shadow sits and waits for him." 

The closing scene is come; the idol is turned to clay; the young 
wife is face to face with the great mystery of life — the mystery of 
death. 

And here, on this beautiful day, she has come back to Maiden to 
lay her idol in the dust, and these are her relatives and friends come to 
meet, and sympathize, and weep with her. 

And as the scene receded from the view, these sorrowful words of 
song came sweeping o 'er our subdued and chastened thoughts : 

"It was not so, ere he we loved, 
And vainly strove with heaven to save. 
Heard the low call of death and moved, 
With holy calmness to the grave 
Just in that brightest hour of youth, 
When life, spread out, before us lay, 
And charmed us with its tones of truth. 
And colors radiant as the day." 

The noise of day is done ; the silence of midnight reigns ; the ham- 
let of Yates City is peacefully sleeping ; but as we sit here to record the 
thoughts that come to us, we realize that truth is stranger than fiction, 
and that we have but touched a theme that, in the mind of a competent 
and ready writer, would develop into an interesting story. But we 
have touched it only with the magic wand of truth, and it will touch 
a tender chord in many a reader's heart, and some will find in it a 
mirror in which to view their sorrow-stricken selves, and they will 
gently weep, and clip this Hour Alone, and paste it in some scrap-book 
rare and prized, and they will go to it like worshiper devout to the 
shrine he loves, and read it o'er again, and, reading, weep afresh. 

Woman's Work 

Most men pay little attention to the work done by their wives. 
This is more especially true of the cooking, and the keeping in order 
the dishes, the cooking utensils, and the many things that go to make 
up the outfit for preparing meals. 

It is true that nearly all men think that they could do the work as 
well as their wives, and perhaps a little better, for man is a conceity 
animal after all. He is so accustomed to seeing things decent and in 
order, when he comes home to his meals, that he falls into the notion — 



OUR HOUR ALONE 63 

absurd enough, too, on reflection — that somethow it is no trick at all 
to have them so. His work is in the field, the mine, the shop, the 
store, or the office, and he realizes how much of study and of worry- 
there is in planning what falls to his lot to keep going. But the mere 
work of preparing a meal, of washing the dishes, of tidying up the 
place — "siding up the house," as the English put it — why, pshaw! there 
is no trick in that. Anybody could do that. Why, of course they 
could! But it is only men who reason in this silly fashion. Women 
know better. They have become accustomed to that kind of work, and 
it becomes a second nature to them ; but they know that every meal has 
to be planned; that things do not happen to come right; that every 
batch of bread has its worry for fear it will not rise as it should, or 
that the oven may get too hot, or that it should not bake evenly. It 
is not without diplomacy that a woman goes about to make such a com- 
promise of the meal that each member of the family may find some- 
thing appetizing. There is one who will not eat anything that has 
onions in it; another can't bear potatoes if cabbage has been cooked 
with them ; one is just wild to have potato soup, while another thinks 
soup of any kind is out of place, and can only be suggestive of "Oliver 
Twist"; one won't stomach cheese, while another thinks if there is 
anything better than cheese, it is more cheese ; one hankers after pan- 
cakes three times a day, and another never wants to see one; mango 
peppers have great power over one, while the other would just as soon 
be offered a dessert of Indian turnip. One must have lettuce wilted 
in vinegar, while another likes it sweetened, and a third contemp- 
tuously denominates it "rabbit fodder." One prefers pickles out of 
the brine, while another wants them sour enough to make a pig squeal. 

Now it is evident to anybody — except a horrid man — and all men 
are more or less horrid — generally more — that in the thought, and plan- 
ning, and study, and worry, to meet all these different tastes that 
fall to the lot of woman, she has the harder task. And this has to be 
faced, and settled three times a day — except possibly on Sunday- 
seven days in the week, four weeks in the month, and twelve months 
in the year, during her natural life. It makes one dizzy to even think 
of it. The only wonder is that there are so few women in the insane 
asylums. If the men were to tackle such a job there would not be 
enough of them left on the outside of the "fool house" to stand guard 
over those on the inside. 

Then there is the other side of woman's work as a cook. It is the 
pathetic side, too. The task would be perplexing enough were the 
larders always well stocked ; but they are not. Many a woman knows 
all about the perplexities of getting up meals when there is precious 
little to get. It is these that should command the respect, and have 
the pity of mankind. And they are the larger class, too, which is 
the worst thing about the whole matter. There are the homes of 



S4> OUR HOUR ALONE 

thrift and plenty, thank God, for every one of them! There are 
homes of want and squalor, God pity them ! where the cooking causes 
scarcely a thought, for there is nothing to cook. But between them is 
the number greater than both of these — those homes where the subject 
of economy, strict, stern, rigid, uncompromising economy must be a 
daily study. It is no easy task to make even dainty, appetizing food 
always inviting. It is downright mental drudgery to meet the require- 
ments of every day, when meals must not only be invented out of the 
coarser materials, but often be patched up of scraps that are too 
valuable to be thrown away. 

Most of us may say of these tactful, patient, brave, noble and 
loving women of ours, in the truthful and beautiful words of Petro- 
leum V. Nasby : 

"I wrestled with my books; her task was harder far than mine — 
'Twas how to make two hundred dollars do the work of nine." 

It was not our purpose to thus moralize when we took up the pen, 
but these thoughts came to us — or may we not indulge the fancy that 
they were sent — and we hope that they will be appreciated by the 
large class of women whose alpha and omega in life is the drudgery 
that the kitchen imposes. 

The Influence of Christmas 

It is scarcely possible to escape the influence of the holiday season. 
It becomes so universal that it permeates everything. If we could 
imagine that every particle of the influence exerted on the human race 
by Christianity could be blotted out, — forgotten — and we could still 
retain the glad season of Christmas, there would be no danger of a 
relapse into the darkness and ignorance of barbarism. It would be 
impossible to keep the knowledge of the Divine Savior of the world 
from those who were in the habit of celebrating the annual return of 
the most important birth the world has ever known. 

It is the time when the children become the special objects of the 
labor, the love and the affection of the older people, the time when 
the little ones are the center and the circumference of all plans and 
speculations. It is the time for rejoicing over the many family 
reunions — and may we not say of sorrow that there are so many whom 
adverse circumstances deny that boon — where the sons and the daugh- 
ters gather about the table in the old kitchen, and reverently bow their 
heads while they listen to the old familiar "blessing," from the lips 
of the now gray-haired father. It is the time for giving gifts, and for 
the expression of good wishes, and the indulgence of good cheer, and 
for general rejoicing. It is spoken of as a time of joyousness, of 
pleasure and of happiness. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 65 

Christmas is like a political campaign; one may hold aloof from 
its influence for a time, but will be gradually drawn into it — because 
everybody else is in it — and one is soon as enthusiastic as any of them. 
The fact is that enthusiasm is contagious, and cannot be resisted. That 
is the best reason that can be given for the belief that enthusiasm is 
a good thing. It is a reacher out after the cold, the lukewarm, the 
indifferent, and a welder of all the parts into a homogeneous mass. 
So is the influence of the Christmas season a reacher out after those 
who are not interested, and it welds the component parts into a com- 
pact, solid and enthusiastic whole. 

Would it be possible to extend the happiness of this glad season 
through the entire year? No; because enthusiasm is not a normal 
condition, but a fitful fire that flashes up when fanned by some sud- 
den gust of wind, but smolders — almost hidden — in the calm. It is a 
wave that rises, and mounts, and rushes furiously and frantically for- 
ward when the storm rages, but sinks to the level of the ocean as soon 
as the wind seeks its cavern. No ; because man is an impulsive animal, 
and scintillates or soddens at the changing of a breath. 

But let us not confound happiness and pleasure. They are not 
alike ; they are not to be obtained in the same way. Pleasure may be 
sought after and obtained, for it is an object, but there may not be 
happiness in it when obtained. Indeed, it will readily suggest itself 
that pleasure indulged may result in the most intense misery. It may 
be found in the humblest home, as readily as in the most costly palace, 
for it is but the ripened fruit that grows on the tree of contentment. 

Pleasure may be purchased with money, but happiness is beyond 
the reach of wealth to buy. It is a blessing that — like all God's best 
gifts to man — is in the reach of those who are in the obscurest con- 
dition of poverty. 

Happiness is the great desire of the human heart. But many mis- 
take the way to secure the coveted prize, and find, when too late, that 
they have traded happiness for pleasure, and have mortgaged their 
higher and better manhood for that which can never satisfy. Pleasure 
leads downward to riot, to excess, to failure, and often to ruin. Hap- 
piness leads upward to wider charities, to higher manhood, to nobler 
purposes, to God and heaven. 

The happy crowds of children who — before these random thoughts 
are printed — will have gathered about the Christmas trees, and picked 
the ripe fruit of love and affection, are standing with the promise of 
their years before them, and hope gilds with splendor this promise, 
and reveals to them the beauty of the roses that bloom in their path- 
way, but conceals the sharpness of the thorns that will lacerate their 
hands in the attempt to gather them. Some of them are too young 
to be advised, admonished, or warned. But many of them are old 



66 OUR HOUR ALONE 

enough to think for themselves, and to all such we would say, learn 
in the very outstart, that pleasure and happiness are not synonymous 
terms, that, of the two, happiness is beyond compare, and that the 
surest way to miss happiness is to engage in a mad chase after pleasure. 
Remember the words of the sad, sweet singer, Mrs. Dorothea Felicia 
Hemans : j 

"Oh happiness! how oft we flee " 

Thine own sweet paths, in search of thee." 

Alone in the Old Church 

It is again Monday night, and the tiny bustle of Yates City — 
which some of her citizens may be pardoned for mistaking for the 
noise of the world — is hushed to a serene quietness that is Sabbath- 
like in its stillness. The day has been in strange contrast to the Mon- 
day of a week ago. Then it was cold, cheerless, dreary, repelling; 
now it is warm, cheerful, pleasant, inviting. No howling winds arouse 
the weird fancies of days that make one feel just a little as if one 
had been reading Tam 0' Shanter. So calm and peaceful seems nature 
at this hour that the poet 's fancy comes to us : 

"The breeze of night has sunk to rest, 
Upon the river's tranquil breast." 

There are no moving shadows occasioned by the oscillating motion 
of the electric lights, for they are not needed, and have not been 
lighted, for such a lambent moon pales out the weaker stars that only 
the more brilliant ones are left to spangle the blue heaven. There are 
no clouds, and just such a night must have entranced the eye of the 
poet when he wrote : 

"And milder moons imparadise the night." 

A week ago we mused why such a bleak, uncanny day should come, 
but now we realize that it enables us to appreciate the wondrous, gen- 
tle beauty of a day like this — days none too common in a climate so 
capricious and fickle as that in which we live. 

Sunday was a rare, sweet, beautiful day, too, well calculated to 
call out the worshipful in man, and center all his homage above the 
earth rather than on it. As we sit here, spared by a gracious, loving 
Heavenly Father to enjoy another Hour Alone, our thoughts, amenable 
to no law of control, call up the multitudes that gathered in the 
churches, ostensibly to worship God. It has been said by some quaint 
writer that if one enters a church when filled with a congregation it is 
not possible to realize the past that it may have, because some move- 
ment in the pews, some fashion brought there for display, some eccen- 
tricity of the minister — we take it he is not less free than other men 
from these — will distract our thoughts. But to get the key and slip 



OUR HOUR ALONE 57 

up to the church door when one is all alone, to walk as softly as 
infant's step — a thing we will be sure to do — to start at turning of 
the stubborn lock as though we heard an angel speak, to enter half 
reluctant, half in dread, and feel a strange and weird sensation creep- 
ing over us, as if we stood where rest the sheeted dead just at that 
solemn hour when another day is on the eve of being born — these bring 
us face to face with other conditions. 

The time the church was built forces itself upon us; strange that 
it never came to us on Sunday. It has been forty years — perhaps 
more — it may be less — it matters not — but forty years make changes 
in most men, and in communities too. 

And as we stand alone within the aisle the shadows lift, we 
gather courage, lose that deep sense of superstitious dread that clings 
to most of us, and begin to realize what has been acted on this mimic 
stage. 

Here are the aged men, walking with short, unsteady step, to 
reach the pews nearer the pulpit, for somehow they seem to hear 
the sermon better of late when a little closer, but not because age 
has dulled their sense of hearing, not at all. Yonder the mothers, 
aged and bent, with quaint device of cape, or cloak, or shawl, totter 
to their places, and grasp the back of the next pew to enable them 
to settle in their own. There on the left hand side the young men 
gather to fill the seats nearest the door. Alas, that young men so 
often prefer to take the left hand road in life! About the middle 
pews the young ladies congregate in bevies. It would be quite unjust, 
besides being rude, to insinuate that their thoughts wandered from 
the sermon — sometimes over to the left hand corner. Then come 
the boys, rollicking, roistering, romping, careless, thoughtless, happy 
boys, and they drop down anywhere, and with an expression of face 
that says as plainly as words could do, "I wonder how long I'll have 
to be tortured by this high backed seat this time. Just wait till I 
get big, and you don't never n-e-v-e-r catch me in a church." But, 
thank God ! the resolutions of boyhood 's days are apt to be forgotten 
when the responsibilities and duties of manhood come. And sand- 
wiched everywhere are the doll like little girls — curled, ruffled, 
starched, primped until they verily believe it were dangerous to move 
lest they might fall to pieces. Gathering in the left hand corner next 
the pulpit, is the choir, it will not do to speculate upon the possibilities 
that lie wrapped in the average choir. The minister generally looks 
over to the corner where the choir sits, much as the farmer looks into 
the northwest in haying time, to determine if a storm be imminent. 
And the babies; there is no observation in the person who has not 
noted the baby in church. How its eyes dilate with wonder! How 
it shrinks at the first tone of the organ! How its lip quivers as the 



68 OUR HOUR ALONE 

tenor, soprano and alto drop into line, and when the deep toned bass 
joins all the others, and they all thunder down on the final Hallelujah, 
Amen! the pearly tears are rolling down its peach bloom cheeks, and 
it is trying to hide in the fold of its mother's dress. 

The scene changes; it is communion Sunday; there is a holy hush 
on the congregation; the sacred emblems are being passed by the 
solemn faced elders ; with bowed heads, and white handkerchiefs 
shading their faces, the followers of Jesus are obeying his command, 
"Do this in remembrance of me." If there be a type of heaven seen 
on earth, it is where the children of the King meet around His table 
to commemorate His dying love. 

Again the scene changes ; the wedding march is playing ; beauty 
and manhood plight their troth : the father's face is grave ; the mother's 
eyes are wet ; congratulations are given ; at such a time how appropri- 
ate the poets words: 

"But though impressions calm and sweet, 
Thrill round my heart a holy heat, 

And I am inly glad, 
The tear drop stands in either eye, 
And yet I can not tell thee why, 

I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad." 

Again the scene changes; the church is crowded; there is the 
trample of feet at the entrance ; the bearers are toiling up the narrow 
aisle; a wail of sorrow breaks from lips of anguish — the same bitter 
cry that woke the echoes of the Nile when Egypt's first born died; 
that cry has never ceased, and yet it stirs the fount of feeling in all 
of human kind, and while the kindred weep because 
"God's finger touched him and he slept." 
their friends weep too, at sight of stricken friends. 

Dear readers of the Banner, it were a tale too long did we 
relate but half that came to us in this hour while standing here within 
these dedicated walls. Just how we came to wander in we can not 
tell; call it an inspiration if you will, we do not care; but earnestly 
we hope some thoughts may come to you as you peruse our thoughts, 
and that we all may be the better for the thinking. 

A Touching Obituary 

Elsewhere in this issue will be found an obituary notice entitled 
''In Loving Memory," taken from the columns of The Manito Express. 
We do not know any of the parties, for Manito is in the north part of 
Mason county. But it is written in such a sad, tender pathos, such 
a simple, touching, sorrowful style, that it must appeal to the heart 
of every parent, whether they have been called upon to lay away in 



Ai 



OUR HOUR ALONE 59 

the windowless palace such a dear household treasure, or whether 
that treasure be still the light and the joy of their home. If you 
"have loved and lost," we are sure that your tears will flow afresh 
when you read the obituary of little Ralph. If you have loved such a 
precious four-year-old treasure, and he is still spared to your loving 
embrace, we feel sure that when you read this simple story of the 
death of little Ralph, you will clasp your dear one closer to your 
heaving bosom, and looking up with tear-dimmed eyes thank God who 
spared him you, and utter a prayer for his continued safety. In either 
case you will be the better that you have read it — that is if you have 
tried to realize the tragedy of this simply story in all its sad, vivid 
reality. To do this you must put yourself in the place of these bereaved 
parents; their little Ralph must become your own little Paul, or 
Philip, or John, or Albert, or Herman, or Frank, or whatever the name 
of your dear one is. Suppose this scene were enacted in your home? 
Will not your tears flow like rain at the mere thought that such a 
scene may come to you? It may come. 

"There is no flock, however watched and tended. 
But one dead lamb is there! 
There is no home, howsoe'er defended. 
But has one vacant chair!" 

These are the tragedies of life that bring the deepest sorrows, that 
stir the soul to its profoundest depth, that scar the heart with wounds 
that never can be effaced this side the gates of Paradise, where the 
departed ones wait to welcome us. 

Have you ever been an actor in such a scene? Have you seen the 
strong, manly little hero lose interest in the things of this world, and 
begin to see visions of the shining way? Have you seen the glow of 
health fade from his cheeks, and the pallor of death settle over his 
pinched face? Have you listened to his childish "I'se going to die?" 
Have you heard his last "Doodnight Papa, Doodnight Mamma, Dood- 
night Dranma, sweet dreams?" — never to be heard again this side the 
pearly gates, where his greeting will not be "Doodnight," but a glad 
"Doodmorning." Have you witnessed the last feeble struggle, and 
seen the pale hue of death o'ercast the face but yesterday so flushed 
with hope, so bright with promise? If so, strive not to dam the sor- 
row sluices of the soul, for grief in swelling tide will rise and sweeping 
every barrier away, will let your tears o'erflow, those kindly tears, 
those heaven-sent tears, that only can quench the fierce, consuming 
fires of grief, and soften bitter pain to that which bring to crushed 
and bleeding human hearts a sad relief, the thought that He whose 
lowly birth in Bethlehem's manger cradle awoke the echoes of Judea's 
rugged hills with glad refrain of angel song, hath said "Suffer the 
little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such 



60 OUR HOUR ALONE 

is the kingdom of heaven." And shall we meet those dear ones once 
again? Can love perish? Forever no. Our reason answers no. Our 
hope says no. Our faith looks up to God and clinging to His promise 
says I know that when the earth dissolves in fervent heat, when suns 
are burned to dust, when stars have fallen, when moons shall wander 
darkling in space, when the heavens are rolled together as a great 
scroll, when the archangel's trump shall call the sheeted dead, amid 
the wreck of matter and the crash of worlds, immortal love will live, 
and we shall meet our Ralph, our Paul, our Philip or our John, and 
hear his welcome, "Doodmorning." 

This beautiful obituary of little Ralph is truly touching. We 
have often said that those who would touch the heart with what they 
write must themselves be moved to tears in the writing. We do not 
know the writer of little Ralph's obituary, but we have read it, and, 
well, we think tears fell to stain the pages on which it was written, 
and we believe there are but few who can read it without the mist 
of tears dimming their vision — and those who can we envy not. 

Dear readers of the Banner, you have the brain child of an Hour 
Alone. If it shall stir you to deeper sympathy for those bereaved, 
if it shall cause a more earnest study of the mystery of death, if it 
reveals to you a loving chastening in earth's greatest sorrow, if it 
strengthens your hope in God, if it makes your faith in a better world 
beyond clearer and brighter, if it adds to your assurance of a happy 
meeting with those you have loved and mourned, then will we rest 
content, and bid you all a kind good night. 

Having a Purpose in Life 

No one can make life a success without some purpose. He who 
haphazards through life never accomplished what he might do. Our 
very best for others is a motto that should ever be before us. In 
doing our best for others we do the very best for ourselves. To do 
our best for others there must be a purpose, a resolve, a determina- 
tion, and these must be so persistently followed that time will give 
us no vacancies in which to idle, to repine, to despond. Those who 
do something for humanity are those who see the needs of the human 
race. This is not asserting that all who tl^us perceive man's wants 
are able to administer to them. Far from it; there are many who 
discern those needs and wants very quickly, and yet their plans are 
so tardy in forming, or rather their lack of plan is so conspicuous 
that with the very best intentions, they let life's golden opportunities 
slip by unimproved and at its close look back with vain regrets and 
wonder at their blindness, and censure their own lack of system that 
induced them to let days lengthen into weeks, weeks into months, 
and months into years, until the whitening locks, and the dimmed 



OUR HOUR ALONE 61 

eye, and the bent form, and the treacherous memory warn them that 
just before them is the open grave, that was none the less rapidly 
or surely approached because of irresolution and want of decision. 
Their great lack — and they see it now all the more only because it 
is too late — has been the absence of a purpose that would have made 
life much more of a success than it now appears. 

But more than a purpose is needed. There is needed an absolute, 
abiding, enduring, unwavering belief in the goodness, the purity, the 
nobility of their fellowman. He who did more than all others to 
lift up the fallen and rescue the perishing of the world did so because 
he saw that while the image of God was scarred, and blotched, and 
scratched, and disfigured by sin, yet there still remained the Divine 
impress of the Creator, needing only to be washed, and polished, and 
regenerated in order that it might regain the pristine beauty and 
purity that was tarnished by the fall. And so do we need to realize 
that men and women are worth saving before we can hope to have any 
success in our endeavors, no matter how earnest they may be, nor 
how much of purpose we may have for the accomplishment of good. 
He is not equipped for the real duties of life who fails to grasp the 
great fact that no truth is more capable of demonstration than is this 
one of the brotherhood of man and the fatherhood of God. We laugh 
at the castes of Brahmin, but forget that all class distinctions that 
exist in our own civilization are man made and God condemned. In 
our sight, as in God's sight, wealth and power and position and popu- 
larity must count for nothing, and character and worth must be the 
criterion before much can be done that betters the condition of those 
who act on the stage of life with us, or that will make an impress on 
the age in which we have lived. 

Of course if we admit the soundness of the conclusions in the 
last paragraph, it will follow we must not dwell too much on those 
phases of human existence that tend to show us that some of the 
strings on the instrument we call society are out of tune; that some 
of the cogs are broken in the great wheel that rolls us all forward, 
and others so much worn that they no longer mash, but cause a loss 
of power by jumping cogs. And here is the nice point to decide. 
If some good still remains in man, and we are bound to discover it and 
acknowledge it, are we to look only on this phase of human character, 
always finding something to commend, something to praise, something 
to admire? Are we to shut our eyes to the fact of wrong, of vice, 
of tyranny, of injustice, of oppression? 

It is charged to the reformer that he is a "calamity howler," and 
there are undoubtedly good grounds on which such a charge can be 
predicated. It is hinted that it is only the "green fly" that finds 
the sore. It is said the time spent in holding up to view the wrongs 
that are asserted to exist would — if otherwise spent — discover some- 



62 OUR HOUR ALONE 

thing that could be made to reassure man's failing virtues and make 
his faith in goodness strong. It is doubtless true some have turned 
out of the path where duty plainly pointed because others have 
scouted at the existence of the evils that they were about to attack. 
The Priest and the Levite came along the same road where the man 
who had fallen among thieves was lying, but they preferred not to 
see him, and if no other source of relief had appeared, he would have 
perished in his hopeless helplessness. But there came a Samaritan 
along that way and he saw him; his misery touched the cord of sym- 
pathy in his heart, and he forgot the millions who were at ease in the 
world, and saw only the imminent danger of this man. He set about 
doing something for him; he brought him to another man, and asked 
him to help. The fact is he got excited and became a calamity howler. 
But the Master in the matchless narrative that brings the event to our 
notice does not condemn him for this. 

Our conclusion is that the "whole need not a physician, but those 
who are sick." That the strong are able to care for themselves, while 
the weak need assistance. "We do not forget the larger multitude 
who are law-abiding, happy and prosperous. No need to cry out 
in regard to them. But urgent, imperative, pressing need to arouse 
sympathy for the weak, the fallen, the suffering. 

If we see only the bright side of life, how will the dark side be 
made brighter? If we hear only those who laugh, who is to comfort 
those who weep? If we notice only those who stand in the sunlight 
of prosperity, who will speak cheering words to those who sit in the 
shadow of adversity? The butterfly flits from flower to flower in 
the tepid warmth of the noonday sun, but the petrel will fly in the 
very teeth of the angry storm cloud. It is necessary to have a pur- 
pose; it is right that we see the wrongs that should be righted as 
the days are going by; that we see the poor who need help; the 
oppressed who need succor, and that we fail not to meet the responsi- 
bility that falls to our lot. 

If some readers of the Banner find in this Hour Alone a thought 
inspiring to a better conception of duty to those around them, an 
idea inciting to nobler manhood and womanhood, to a more desirable 
citizenship for Yates City, the aim of the writer is accomplished. 

The Power of Words 

Lord Byron, that wonderfully gifted genius, has given us this 
beautiful thought, and it is no less instructive than beautiful: 

"But words are things, and a small drop of ink. 
Falling like dew upon a thought, produces 
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think." 



OUR HOUR ALONE 63 

What have words done? And what have words not done? And 
yet how much at random do we use them ! How many of them are 
frivolous words! What a vast number of them are idle words! And 
what a multitude of them are vain words! How little of thought is 
given to a majority of the words that are used ! And yet words are 
but thoughts, so articulated that what is passing in one mind is con- 
veyed to another, and thus becomes a medium to awaken thought in 
that other mind. 

As I sit here tonight in this same chair where thoughts of mine, 
though not articulated, have been so pictured by the pencil's point, 
and so placed on paper by the printer's art, that those who read the 
Banner have with us gone into some of the grand picture galleries 
of the mind, and together have gazed on joyous scenes, on sorrow's 
saddest hours, on home's sweet, quiet bliss, on poverty's deep distress, 
on all a mother's deep and holy love — or had we not better say on 
all of it that we, with our cramped powers, are able to comprehend? — 
for if there be one thing not born on the earth, but lent, we can but 
thiak, from heaven, that will continue to unfold in all the ceaseless 
years of the eternity that must run parallel with God's existence, 
that thing must be the pure, unselfish, enduring, self-sacrificing, holy 
love that finds lodgment no other where but in that sacred place, 
a mother's heart. But as we sit and muse, the fancy comes to calcu- 
late how many words the ordinary mortal uses during life ; how many 
kinds there be; and what effect they have on our own lives, and on 
the lives of others about us. But can we number them? Go tell the 
waves that in the years since time begun have dashed on all the 
wave washed shores. Go number all the myriad notes that in the ages 
past have floated in the sunbeam's warmth. Go and enumerate the 
sands that pile the desert's wastes. Go and lift up your eyes to 
heaven's vault of blue, and count the stars that sparkle in those azure 
fields, for when you can do all these, nor yet omit one wave, nor leave 
one note unnumbered, nor miss one grain of sand however small, nor 
fail to count the tiniest star in all yon host, you may expect to count 
the words that fall from the lips of one whose years have reached the 
allotted span of life. 

There are the lisping, faltering words that fall from childhood's 
rosy lips, the thoughtless words of youth, so freely used before ex- 
perience teaches us to think ; the earnest words of years mature, when 
wisdom rules the tongue, and oft enforces silence ; the jabbering words 
of age, when all the faculties decay, and we are as the infant once 
again, but yet bereft of hope. 

There are harsh words, that grate on every ear; gentler words, 
that soothe and heal ; bitter words, that tell us peace has flown ; sweet 
words, that tell us love is born ; words of reproach, that stir the very 
soul to madness ; words of commendation, that rouse every latent power 



64 OUR HOUR ALONE 

to nobler action ; words of cursing, that incite to rage ; words of bless- 
ing, that fall on troubled hearts like some blest benediction ; words of 
praise, that lift the heart to ecstasy, and words of doom that sink 
it in despair. 

Oh, those cruel words that destroy domestic bliss, that kill love, 
that feed hate, that mar friendships, that estrange lovers, that destroy 
hopes, that mar lives! Oh, sarcastic words that burn and scathe, and 
blight, and blister! Oh, words of scandal that sear and scorch, and 
blacken, and destroy ! But, gentle reader, let us go back to the genesis 
of words. While there are millions of derivatives, there are but two 
roots — the good words, and the bad words. And they are formed so 
often upon the same tongue. One of the inspired writers says of the 
tongue : 

"Even so the tongue is a little member, and breatheth great 
things; but the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of 
deadly poison. Therewith bless we God, and therewith curse we 
man." And let us remember that these tongues are word formers, 
and that one of them is ours to guide, to direct, to control. 

But the wisest man of all the ages has said that "words fitly 
spoken are like apples of gold in pictures of silver." 

And e'er we say good night, permit us, reader dear, to tell you, 
as a reminder here, that words, like us, are mortal, and, like us, im- 
mortal too ; that while they sleep and we, perchance, may count them 
dead, they sleep but to arise, and rising will confront us as we stand 
with all the human race in that great judgment hall, to hear from 
lips of the great Judge Supreme this verdict, rare but true: "By thy 
words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be con- 
demned." You have the thoughts that come to us in this Our Hour 
Alone; God grant these thoughts may benefit you, as they have 
profited us. 

The Mystery of Life 

The day with its brood of busy cares is ended. The shades of 
night have wrapped in gloom alike the tall mountain peaks, the valleys 
and the plains of earth. Deep, sombre clouds are drifting over a sky 
that shows but here and there a rift of azure blue, in which a few 
scattering stars look down upon the earth, just as they looked down 
upon the plains of Judea on that memorable night when simple shep- 
herds heard the angel song that has never since died out. The lights 
have gone out in the houses until but few are visible from the window 
by which we sit, and these may be attributed to bookworm's love 
of musty volumes, the imperative necessity of watching by the bed 
where pain has banished rest, or that more solemn task where watchers 
keep their silent vigils about the white-robed form whose pulse is 
stilled forever, and whose span of life has been cut short by that 



OUR HOUR ALONE 65 

inevitable shadow that lurks in all the busy haunts of life, and whose 
silent footfalls wake no echo as he places his foot just in that spot 
where ours was lifted from. 

The clock ticks loud — or seems to do so — for harsher notes of day 
have died away or gone to sleep to wake again with the returning 
light, to din the ear of man, who, waking too, will rise to scheme 
and plan, to reach and overreach, to toil and strive, to triumph or 
to fail, and but the few mysterious sounds that waning hours of day 
know, and we have scarce the courage to investigate, are heard; and 
so the clock ticks away those hours, those hours that never can return, 
but always march in the procession that comes out of the darkness 
and is lost in the mists, and the sound strikes on the ear with a per- 
ceptible jar, and we wonder if comparison is the only criterion by 
which we can estimate those things that we see or hear. 

At such a time, to spend an hour considering that in a few brief 
years, we are to pass to the eternity of years that are but part of 
those that are to come, can fitly bring to mind the fact that with those 
hours, we, too, are passing on, and that before we cease to turn with 
fondness to the things of youth, the hand of time has pushed us to 
the verge of age, and we are near the lesser of the two great mys- 
teries of life, for there are two, and we do know that they are life and 
death, and also know that life is the profounder of the twain. 'Tis 
vain to speculate on life or how it came; enough to know we live, 
and joy beyond compare if we can feel that we have lived aright. 
Science may weigh the worlds, may measure the distant stars, may 
penetrate the rocky crust of earth and drag her buried history to the 
day, may resolve the sunbeam to its elements and find in its tiny 
globule that the iron is there, may drag the bottom of the seas for 
hidden things, may hitch the forces of nature to her car and urge 
it forward, but science, baffled, stands as dumb as Egypt's sphinxes 
are when she is brought face to face with the mysterious problem of 
life, and with the great agnostic, Ingersoll, hides behind the ram- 
part, "I do not know." 

Yes, science plumes her flight to the most distant stars, peers in 
the caves where winds are born, unlocks the curious chemistry of 
nature, lays bare the treasures of the mines, takes atmosphere to 
pieces, and toys with all the forces that she meets, until her voice is 
wisdom's utterance, and yet when asked how life originates her lips 
are dumb and her great knowledge is at fault. 

Is there a lesson here? It must be so. Man learns that but a 
higher power can understand this great mystery of life, and after all 
the solid wall of fact blocks up his way, and he is driven to accept 
what only revelation can explain of life and how it came. 

The greater mystery comes first and still remains unexplained, 



66 OUR HOUR ALONE 

and little wonder then the last — though less — is still so great that 
science fails to grasp it and explain. We look upon our friend who 
lies before us, cold and calm and rigid, and we know that he has 
solved the lesser mystery; but here our knowledge ends. Ah, how 
we long to know if he has stepped on higher vantage ground and 
solved the greater, too. Has science found her peer, her superior? 
Has speculation found a solid base and changed to certain knowledge? 
We cannot answer questions such as these, but we may do so in the time 
to come. 

One thing we know, we live; another, that we are all candidates 
for death, and our election certain. Since Cain arose and slew his 
brother Abel, and tearwet lashes rested on the cheeks of Eve, the 
wail of sorrow caused by death has never ceased to fall on human ears. 
That bitter wail rolled down the Nile when Egypt's firstborn died, 
has broken the stillness everywhere that human feet have trod, has 
sounded in each vale, woke mountain echoes from their slumbers, and 
penetrated every nook in this busy world. 

Is life to be despised? Must death a terror be? Forever no! 
There rises in the soul that strange, strong, intense desire for after- 
life which is the strongest evidence nature gives of life beyond the 
grave, and it gives to life a purpose, and to death a glorious hope. 

Dear readers of the Banner, you have the musings of an Hour 
Alone. If they but wake some thoughts in other minds, but lead 
some one to look on life as given for some purpose, and death the hour 
that leads to fuller life, the writer is content to bid you all good night. 

The Sick-Room 

The room is a common one, the floor covered with a rag carpet, 
the walls finished in white, a few pictures hanging here and there; a 
small stove is standing a little back from the chimney, and an air 
of neatness pervades the whole apartment, as if deft fingers had 
tried to make everything connected with the room as cheery as pos- 
sible. It is an upper room, and as you enter it an aroma of medicines 
greets you, even at the landing on top of the stairs. It is difficult to 
tell just what it is, but it always makes us slightly nervous to detect 
this smell, for it tells us that somebody's darling is supposed to be 
in danger. 

As we enter the room we see an improvised table, — perhaps a 
goods box — covered with a plain white cloth ; above it a small mirror, 
a coarse comb lying below it, and a small white towel hanging over 
the corner of the table. A glance shows us a saucer with three or four 
oranges in it, one cut and lacking one quarter, and a few peelings 
showing that a dainty appetite has tried to relish the fruit. Several 
bottles, of various sizes, are ranged on the back part of the table. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 67 

all carefully labeled in that professional scrawl that indicates the doc- 
tor, daily writing kindred scrawls. Each bottle has its peculiar flavor 
that the educated nostril distinguishes in a moment. A small delft 
individual dish sits a little to one side of the centre, containing per- 
haps twenty small papers, doubled in that peculiar manner that doc- 
tors observe in putting up powders. Directly in the centre stands 
a tall glass goblet, covered with a small glass side dish, on which is 
resting a silver teaspoon. A common white teacup is not covered, 
but has a spoon with its bowl resting in the liquid the cup contains. 
A box of salve is there also, one of those little round wooden boxes 
that we have all admired and coveted in the happy days of careless 
childhood, long ago, long before such a scene as we are describing 
had any absorbing interest for us. 

On a chair beside this table is a bunch of oakum, while a few pieces 
of tarred rope, a small lap-board, and a well worn caseknife indicates 
clearly how the oakum is obtained. Beside the bed — which stands 
north of the middle of the room — is another chair, and on it is a server, 
on which rests a number of dishes, pickled cherries, a half peeled 
banana, a bunch of luscious looking California grapes — clear and 
transparent as a crystal — a cup of jelly, a few thin slices of dried beef, 
a bit of delicate toast — a very small piece broken from one corner — 
and a paper sack containing several varieties of candy, is resting 
between the edge of the server and the back of the chair. 

On a small stand, in another part of the room, we notice several 
strips of well worn muslin, evidently torn from some discarded sheet, 
and in a basket, in the corner, we notice a medley of pillow-cases, 
old night-gowns, discarded fine shirts, and other articles — perhaps 
thoughfully provided by friends of the family. Standing near the foot 
of the bed is a woman — and it takes but a glance to convince you 
she is the mother. There are no traces of recent tears on her pale 
cheeks — for this is not an immediate death bed — but a glance shows 
you she is acting a part ; that she is appearing unconcerned while she 
is deeply, dreadfully anxious. She has that in her face that tells this 
is not her first great sorrow. No ; she has been a student in the school 
of affliction, and has learned to mask the emotions of the heart so that 
they can scarcely be detected in her visage. It is almost two years 
since she began to try to make this room cheerful for the sick one. 
When she put the first touch to it she knew just how the case would 
terminate ; she had no hope for ultimate recovery ; but she had a duty 
to perform, and she is doing it nobly, grandly, silently, bravely and 
well. 

Days have lengthened into weeks, weeks into months, and months 
into a year, and now almost a second year has been added, and yet she 
is there, apparently tireless, always cheerful, always ready, in fact, 



68 OUR HOUR ALONE 

seeming to anticipate every want. Nobody but a mother ever did this ; 
nobody but a mother ever could do this. But what think you are her 
feelings? None can answer except a mother who has passed through 
some similar experience. If she has not she could not comprehend 
if it were told her. 

We are alone ; the lights have faded from the windows, one by one, 
until all are gone ; a dark rim of heavy black clouds hangs in the north- 
west; the clock is ticking — how loudly, too, but swiftly and surely 
along toward the midnight hour; it is the 22d day of August, 1887; 
in a very short time it will be the 23d, and this day, too, will be num- 
berd with the past. Will the little sketch that we have just penned 
awaken any emotions in the hearts of those who read the Banner? 
We have only taken you to the threshold of a sick room, and permitted 
you to glance at the interior. Some of you have been there before. 
We have only told what you already knew. Some of you — perhaps — 
have not, as yet, reached such a scene in your own life history. Then 
let us ask God to make you wise, brave and strong, for those who can- 
not say "my heart is touched by this simple description of what I 
have seen," will sometime in the future say, "A like experience has 
come unto me." We have but copied from a picture that hangs on 
memory's wall, in the hearts of many of our readers. Good night. 

The Value of a Soul 

Man is restless, energetic, pushing. He is a progressive engine of 
activity. Not only does he turn opportunities to the best possible use, 
but he makes opportunities. His body is a wonderful piece of mech-. 
anism; every part is admirably adapted for the use to which it is to 
be put; the hand is a wonder, taken by itself; take away the hands, 
and how would he subsist? The foot, soft, springy, elastic, how it 
resists the pressure of the weight of the body upon it! The ear is a 
structure so complex, and yet so delicate, that one is amazed at its 
contrivance. The eye, what a wonderful thing it is ! It sees the tiny 
microbes that inhabit a drop of water, and it reaches out into immens- 
ity to examine a star. Let us contemplate the adaptability of the 
body of man to the wants of his physical nature, how its joints, and 
tendons, and ligaments enable man to stand erect, lie prostrate, move 
forward or backward, climb, descend, labor and take pleasure, and 
we will soon discover the fitness of the expression of holy writ, "Man 
is fearfully and wonderfully made." Let us consider the advances 
made in the sciences on account of the properties of the senses in man, 
the progress he has made because of hearing, seeing, smelling, tasting, 
feeling, and we no longer wonder that the poet has said : 

"The proper study of mankind is man." 



OUR HOUR ALONE 69 

Give the individual all of these senses, and if reason sits on her 
throne to direct them aright, happiness, pleasure, will result. Deprive 
him of a portion of them and he is still far from miserable. Take them 
all away and existence has no charms, because his intercourse with 
the world of matter and of mind ceases. 

And yet these wonderful bodies are but the husks that hide a 
kernel; they are but the basket that holds the fruit; they are the 
casket that holds a priceless jewel. They were not meant to be lasting, 
and in them lie the elements of decay, of dissolution. The body is as 
a stalk coming up from a germ, that comes forth, grows, matures, 
decays, dies. The one great undisputed truth of the world is mortality. 
Man lives to die, and living is dying. 

"Soon as we draw our infant breath, 
The seeds of life spring up for death." 

And it is true to the very letter, the expressive words that declare : 

"And our hearts, though stout and brave. 
Still like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave." 

A thousand enemies surround the citadel of life, and seek to enter 
it; a thousand enemies invite the approach of the insidious foe who 
destroys. 

"Man dies, and the mourners go about the streets," was not 
written for a place, but for all places. It is not true of one 
age only, but of all ages. Death's carnival has been all time. 
"He has all seasons for his own." The wail of Egypt's dusky 
mother, as it rolled in sublime sadness along the valley of the 
storied Nile, has echoed and re-echoed along every river of the 
world; that was the bitter cry of affection as it looked into the cold, 
calm, stony face of her first born, as it lay in the embrace of death. 
It has not changed in kind, it is not altered in degree. As it was car- 
ried over the wind-swept waters of the Nile on the morning of a 
nation's sorrow, so we heard it but yesterday, as the mother heart 
poured out its bitter grief over the beautiful little white casket, strewn 
with flowers, proffered in sympathy and love, it is true, but in which 
lay the form of her idol, Walter Penman, an idol that the cruel, cold 
hand of death had turned to clay. That same cry of anguish will go 
out from the last mother who looks into the face of her dead child 
on earth. We walk the earth to trample on a grave. Bryant had 
this thought in mind when he penned "Thanatopsis," and said: 

"All that tread 
The globe, are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom." 

But wonderful and curious as the body is, it is not the important 
part of man ; it is not the most valuable part of him. The mind is as 



70 OUR HOUR ALONE 

superior to the body as the Creator is superior to the creature. Mind 
must be superior to matter. It is not the body that achieves success, 
but the soul that works through the body. The soul designs ; the 
body is but the machine through the agency of which the design is 
carried into execution. The body should be preserved, the mind should 
be educated. "Without mind man is but the companion of a brute; 
with mind he is the equal of a god. What is the value of a soul? 
Listen to the reply of inspiration: "What shall it profit a man if he 
gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" Worth more than a 
world — yea, more than a universe. How shall we estimate its worth? 
Can we number the stars? Can we count the sands on the seashore? 
Can we compute eternity? "Can we, by searching, find out God?" 
How, then, can we estimate the value of the soul of man? The soul 
cannot die. No wail of sorrow will ever ring for a dead soul. But 
such a wail may roll along the valleys of the world of despair for a 
lost soul. It is our duty to preserve these bodies in health, in vigor 
and in strength. It is our duty to preserve these souls of ours from 
pollution, from vice, from sin, from everything that will degrade or 
defile. Are we responsible for the faithful performance of these duties? 
If so, are we here for a purpose? If we are, we have no time to lose. 
Our talent is lent to us. Our duty is our own, and cannot be shoved 
off on someone else. There is no time to idle away. There is no hour 
to waste. No one with a sense of the responsibilities and duties of life 
will ever have to devise means to pass time. Time passes swiftly; it 
carries us with it ; it is a swift stream bearing us forward to the shore- 
less ocean of eternity, where we, dear readers of the Banner, will be 
called on to give an account of how we used our time. 

Opposing Forces 

Mrs. Moreland, in her excellent address on Odd Fellowship, in 
Union Hall, on Monday evening, while speaking of that benevolent 
order, truthfully said that "Everything in the world except sin, folly 
and crime, had to make its way in spite of the most strenuous opposi- 
tion. " This is a fact that is not less strange than true. Just why it 
should be so is one of those mysteries that crowd the entire path of 
scholarly research. No person will for a moment deny the truth of 
her assertion ; in fact, she uttered nothing new when she stated it, but 
simply reiterated what every observer had already noted. The fact 
is not the mystery, but that it should be a fact is not so easily ex- 
plained. One would suppose that an animal of the sagacity and intel- 
ligence of man would shun a road that has such a steep and certain 
decline to destruction; it seems scarcely reasonable that gates, and 
bars, and obstructions would have to be erected across the broad road, 
in order to prevent victims from crowding the road to ruin. It is 



OUR HOUR ALONE 71 

passing strange that a small part of the people should be engaged in a 
desperate — and, at times, a seemingly hopeless — struggle to hold the 
larger part back from some steep precipice over which they are striv- 
ing to plunge themselves. The Christian tells us that God and the 
devil are engaged in a prolonged, though not uncertain contest; those 
who deny religion assert that Good and Evil are opposing forces in 
a great and desperate conflict. Both agree that the earth is but a 
battle field. It would seem more natural for man to crowd the road 
to honor than the one to disgrace; that he should seek happiness 
rather than misery ; that he should wish to move upward rather than 
downward ; that he should strive to be better rather than worse. 

Nor can this warfare cease for a day ; if it does, or if it had since 
the day when a virgin soil drank in the innocent blood of Abel, red- 
handed murder would skulk in every shadow ; the destroyer of virtue 
would creep out in darkness, as the beasts of prey go forth to devour ; 
the robber would scarce seek to shelter his wrong deeds from the 
eye of the sun ; chicanery, fraud, deceit, corruption and villainy would 
learn to stalk forth with unblushing effrontery, and chaos would soon 
usurp the prerogatives of order in society. The glare of a false light 
gloats over the garish scene on the road where travel those who love 
a Sabbath license, the gambler's excitement, the saloon's seductive 
destructiveness, the siren smile that leers, the painted lip that allures 
to the gilded palace where sin blots the blush of shame from the cheek 
of beauty; the tyranny — that most brutal of all the vices, as avarice 
is the sordid and soul destroying — would trample every right of 
humanity beneath the heel of power. To us there are but two ways to 
explain this seeming paradox. God has made a mistake, or man has 
committed a crime; nature has blundered, or man has fallen. But it 
is not our purpose at present to provoke argument, but to awaken 
thought. Let us not forget Mrs. Moreland's aptly stated fact, that 
every good thing is compelled to win its way against the most persist- 
ent opposition. And then let us remember that just once in life 
every human being stands on that spot where two diverging ways pre- 
sent themselves, and is obliged to choose whether his feet shall tread 
the rugged, steep, difficult road that leads to honor in life, peace in 
death, and happiness in eternity, or whether he will enter the more 
easily traveled road that will demand no self-denial in life, but will 
end in dishonor, unrest, and an eternity of unavailing regret. 

"For I Know Their Sorrows" 

"For I know their sorrows." 

Moses was a great man. Great in his simplicity. In this he was 
just like every other great man. Every man who has become great 
has done it in spite of himself. Greatness grows, just as the sturdy 



72 OUR HOUR ALONE 

oak grows — imperceptibly. Every man who set out to become great 
has made a miserable failure of it. To this rule there is not a single 
exception in all the world's history. Moses was born a slave; more 
than that, he came into the world a subject of a monarch's wrath, with 
the sentence of death impending over him. But he was also the sub- 
ject of the love of a mightier Monarch, One whose purposes were 
never thwarted, and whose plans fail not, and for this reason Moses 
grew to manhood, and not to manhood only, but as the adopted son 
of a king's daughter, he was heir to the proudest throne the world 
had — up to that time — known. For four hundred years his Hebrew 
ancestors had toiled as hewers of wood, and drawers of water, and 
makers of brick, for the cruel taskmasters of Egypt. A Pharaoh had 
arisen who knew not Joseph, and human ingenuity was alert to devise 
some new method to add to the sorrows of the despised race. As years 
grew to centuries, and centuries followed each other, what billows of 
sorrow must have swept over the hearts of this strange people — these 
children of promise. When Moses came to the years of discretion he 
refused to be called the son of Pharaoh's daughter, refused all the 
emoluments of royalty, and chose to suffer affliction with his own down- 
trodden race. Moses championed the cause of his countrymen as 
against an Egyptian, and in the conflict the latter was slain. The 
ruler sought to slay Moses, but he fled to the land of Midian, and sat 
there by a well, an outcast, a tramp, a fugitive from justice, and prob- 
ably as desolate and forlorn an object as breathed the air of heaven. 
But he found favor, and found employment, and became a simple 
herdsman for Jethro. As he tended the flock, what sad memories must 
have risen in his mind ? How the tears must have welled up into those 
mild eyes as he thought of his captive brethren, and felt that even hope 
was but a feeble glimmer? One day he led Jethro 's flock to the back 
side of the desert and came to Horeb, the mount of God. And God 
appeared to him in a burning bush, and talked familiarly with him 
in regard to the captive Hebrews, and told him that he had seen their 
afflictions, and would deliver them, for, said He, "I know their sor- 
rows." And He sent Moses, the meekest man that ever has lived, and 
He made him the deliverer of his people, and he is known today as the 
great law giver. It is a wonderful history. Four hundred years of 
contact with the Egyptians did not destroy their nationality, nor 
merge them with the dominant people. Today their descendants are 
among all the peoples of the earth, but not of them. Today the prog- 
eny of those who in sorrow made so many teals of brick, under the lash 
of oppression, are in all the marts of trade and control the wealth of 
a world. 

"I know their sorrows." How these words fell on the troubled 
heart of Moses like a gentle benediction! How hope revived! How 
courage came into his heart! How resolution sprung into life! How 



OUR HOUR ALONE 78 

patriotism felt her flickering flame shoot up to dispel the dismal gloom ! 
"I know their sorrows." These are words of inspiration, and they 
are inspiring words. They were not only for Moses and the Hebrew 
children, but they come to every one of us. This is a world of sorrow. 
This is not the wail of the misanthrope; earth has much of joy and 
gladness ; but it is earth ; and earth has a chalice of bitter sorrow that 
nearly all must press to their lips. When its bitterness wrings the 
human heart, how like a blessed benediction comes God's words to 
Israel's great law giver, "I know their sorrows." 

Here is one who has met misfortune after misfortune ; health has 
failed ; friends have forsaken ; envy has assailed ; suspician has hinted ; 
dishonor has come; age has enervated; pain has enfeebled; gloom is 
on every hand ; hope tires in seeking a rift in the dark clouds about 
the pathway. But lift your head, dejected one; you are nearing 
Horeb, the mount of God. Hark to the voice that comes from the 
burning bush, "I know their sorrows." 

Here are a father and a mother who have toiled early and late to 
provide for a large family of children, and just when age was whiten- 
ing their locks, disease came with stealthy step, and death called time 
and again, until now they stand in the door of a desolate home, and 
look out to where the grassy mounds mark the resting places of all 
they held dear, and just as they are ready to sink under their burden 
of grief they reach the Horeb, and they hear that same voice of power 
saying, "I know their sorrows." 

Here is a son who has despised the chastening of the father, has 
despised his reproof, has sounded all the depths and shoals of vice 
and crime, and just as he thinks that he is about to plunge into the 
abyss, he reaches the Horeb, and ringing out clear, distinct, cheering, 
come these words, ''I know their sorrows." 

Here is a daughter, loved, petted, caressed, spoiled; she has 
lost innocence; she has lost modesty; she has flung away her good 
name; but is she lost? No, no! See her as she comes along the 
rugged, thorny, toilsome path that leads by this Horeb! Why this 
changed look? Why does the ghost of a murdered smile cast a weird 
light over that haggard face? Ah, she has caught a sound never 
before heard! Horeb rises before her, and God's own still, small 
voice reaches her, '*I know their sorrows." 

There is a great crowd of sinners; there is a vast army of sinners; 
there is a countless host of sinners ; they are marching from the cradle 
to the grave ; it is a solemn march ; it is a sad march ; it is a sorrowful 
march, for sin destroys joy and breeds sorrow. But a bow of promise 
spans the concave above them. That host marches in single file at 
some point on the journey, and they pass so close to Horeb, the mount 



74 OUR HOUR ALONE 

of God, that none can fail to hear the voice that rings out constantly, 
*'I know their sorrows." 

The way may be rough and rugged; the night may be long and 
dark; the storm may be loud and appalling. But the way will end; 
the morning will dawn; the storm will become a calm, and we will 
find that though we are strangers in the land of Midian, that at the 
far side of the desert stands that mount that can never be mistaken, 
for from its steep declivity we hear that voice speaking as man never 
spake, ' ' I know their sorrows. ' ' 

The Death of a Tramp 

[The following article in the "Hour Alone" series, was written by the editor 
in 1893, at Bozeman, Montana, while he was in charge of the New Issue, and was 
published in that paper of the date of January 20th of that year. We reproduce 
in the Banner, knowing that many of our readers will recall the incident upon 
which it is founded, and because we believe it will meet the same kindly greeting 
as has been accorded others of this series in the past — Ed.] 

Situated in the rich prairies of the Military Tract, in Knox County, 
Illinois, is an unpretentious little town of perhaps one thousand inhab- 
itants. It is on the Peoria branch of the C, B. & Q. railroad, and is 
the virtual crossing of the Rushville branch of the same road, though 
for nearly three miles after leaving this "^own the same track is used 
by both the branches. All trains on both the branches are required 
to stop here to register, and about the depot, in addition to the usual 
crowd of citizens who are invariably on hand to see the incoming and 
outgoing trains, many strangers are to be seen, for here the south- 
bound passengers change for St. Louis, the northbound for Chicago, 
the eastbound for Peoria, and the westbound for Galesburg. 

Nor is it a thing unusual to see from one to a dozen, or even two 
dozen of the genus "hobo," or "tramp," loitering about the depot, 
or skulking in the lumber yard near the tracks, or keeping "shady" 
in the intricacies of the cattle pens and hog chutes, as they inspect the 
freight trains, and scan the fastenings to the doors, and make mental 
calculations in regard to stealing a ride, or consult together in regard 
to the route they will go, or whether it will be policy to mount dif- 
ferent cars, or all pile into one. 

The genus tramps who ride in the "side-door Pullmans" of the 
Q. road are a tough looking set, ranging in age from the kid of 
scarcely ten summers to the old man of sixty-five or seventy, and in 
size from the slender boy to the stalwart man who seems almost a 
Hercules in muscle and in strength. All of them are grimed with the 
coal-black that is omnipresent in these cars, and their clothes generally 
seedy, if not ragged, their shoes mere relics of the footwear of a more 
prosperous class, and their hats crushed out of all semblance of shape 
by having done duty as pillows when the soft side of a plank, the filthy 



OUR HOUR ALONE 75 

floor of a stock car, or the decayed top of a discarded railroad 
tie was being improvised to take the place of a bed. 

Being then engaged in a business that made it necessary for me 
to be at all trains, I had an opportunity to observe these nomads of a 
modern civilization, and often the leisure — owing to delayed trains — 
to speculate on the various paths these men had trod in their march 
to their present condition, and to wonder in regard to the multitude 
of different causes that operated to bring them thus together on a com- 
mon level, the outcasts, the vagabonds and the scourge of social usages, 
and society conditions that may not be entirely blameless for their 
existence, though — in the main — those who make social usages, and 
those who are responsible for society conditions seem to be scarcely 
concerned in regard to them, if, indeed, the larger part of both these 
classes are not entirely ignorant in regard to these exiles from good 
society. 

"When in the proper mood I would weave quite a romance, as I 
would trace them back from Yates City to the homes of boyhood days, 
and see them engaged in the usual pastimes of childhood and youth, 
rolling on the greensward, playing hide-and-go-seek around the build- 
ings, stacks and sheds, resting in the shade under the apple trees, or 
slaking their thirst at the spring that bubbled out from under the 
great rock at the foot of the sterile garden of some New England 
home. Or I would imagine that I saw them a merry troop of lads, and 
all gathered in some secluded farm neighborhood in the closing sha- 
dows of the summer's twilight, eagerly intent in the chase of the 
elusive firefly whose momentary gleam beaconed them flrst in this 
direction, and next in one entirely opposite. 

From scenes like these it was no great stretch of fancy to see 
them gathered, a tired but happy and careless group, about a fond 
mother, who directed them to wash their feet, straightened out the 
curls on their brows, heard their evening prayers, kissed them a fond 
good-night, tucked them tenderly in clean, warm beds, saw their eyes 
droop heavy with slumber, and then went softly downstairs to build 
the most gorgeous air castles — what mother ever failed to build air 
castles in regard to her darling boy? — in regard to these innocent 
dreamers. 

And how I did sometimes wish that the tide of the years would 
somehow flow backward and land these poor, forlorn outcasts, these 
modern Ishmaels, once more innocent boys in the shelter of those 
blessed old homes. But the tide of the years does not flow backward, 
but forward, and I know such a dream can never be realized. 

One day there were five of these nomads at the depot. The Buda 
freight was just pulling out, and four of them had slipped in between 
cars and disappeared, no doubt through those little windows that are 



76 OUR HOUR ALONE 

found in the ends of box cars. The fifth one stood beside the track 
watching a chance, and hesitating, as the train was gaining quite a 
rate of speed; at last he caught an iron rod and attempted to swing 
himself to the brake beam under the car, but missed putting his foot 
on the beam, lost his grip on the rod, fell, and was rolled along the 
track for some rods, and then was pushed outside of the rail, where he 
lay motionless. A score of people on the platform of the depot saw 
him and hastened to him, but he was but a dead tramp. He was not 
badly disfigured, but there was a great gash on the head, the skull 
crushed, and several bad wounds on the body. 

His bon voyagers said they knew nothing in regard to his name 
or whence he came, stating that he joined them the night previous 
as they were camped about a fire of old ties along the railroad. 

He was placed in the freight house, the coroner notified, an inquest 
held, and the next day the county buried him in that part of the 
cemetery set apart for paupers, and there he is sleeping the last long 
sleep. 

From one of those homes where waking fancies had carried me, 
and where I had seen these waifs in their shelter, he had gone out 
and become a wanderer. It may be that even as I write these lines 
a wrinkled, gray-haired mother is standing at the window, watching 
for the form that will never come, and praying that her boy — for he is 
but a boy to her after the lapse of all these years — may be returned 
to her before she steps down into the cold waters of the mystic river. 

Dear old gray-haired mother, God has in mercy placed a veil 
between your eyes and that cruel scene in the obscure little town in 
Illinois, and shut out from your sight one bitter sorrow. 

Individuality 

It is doubtful if any writer is able to lay aside the peculiar indi- 
viduality that pertains to him or her. Nor that it may not be true that 
some can very nearly, if not altogether, forget self in the delineation 
of characters. Such rare geniuses have been, and, no doubt, can now 
be found. By far the finest compliment that has ever been given to 
any author was that paid to Shakespeare in the following: "He was 
not unlike other men, but like every other man." Still, after aU has 
been said and done, it is true that a distinct individuality is a char- 
acteristic of every noted writer. Let us become acquainted with a 
number of persons only by their writings, and they become known to us 
by their style, just as our friends are distinguished by the sound of 
their voices, even if it be so dark that we are not able to see them. 
We recognize a sentence as belonging to this, that or the other of our 
favorites, just as we learn to know the walk of our most intimate 
friends when their footfalls are heard — that is, by some peculiarity 



OUR HOUR ALONE 77 

that is not to be explained, and yet it identifies them as surely as if 
all the senses had been appealed to, because only this one among all 
of them has this footfall. 

It is a curious, but admirable arrangement, that one single thought 
leads to another, this to a third, and that to others, until what was at 
first but a simple sentence, becomes, at length, compound, or even 
complex. And so it is that the first here touched upon — that of being 
able to distinguish the author by his style — has led us to consider one — 
to us well known — who has learned to distinguish the different engines 
that pass through Yates City, by the difference in the way in which 
the engineers sound the whistles. It may be said that as no two 
engineers ever sound them exactly alike, that this is not a great , 
achievement. But this same one can also tell the difference of the 
engine bells, and designate the particular train by that difference, and 
can also tell what train it is by the noise it makes in passing over the 
rails. It was with some astonishment we learned this fact, nor was it 
altogether without hesitation that we admitted its truth. To us, all 
whistles are the same, all engine bells alike, and the noise of all trains 
as similar as a row of peas in a pod. But observation convinced us that 
she could tell accurately by these sounds, and all that could be done 
was to conclude that she had an aptness for this sort of thing, or 
that she took an interest in it, or, what is no doubt more nearly cor- 
rect, that she had arrived at this degree of perfection by persistent, 
careful and laborious study. 

And may not this thought be linked with another, that, after all, 
this is the secret of success along any line. Rrst, some adaptability 
to that particular line — whatever it may be — and then persistent, care- 
ful and laborious study. Few people can do many things well. It was 
out of the recognition of this came the adage, "Jack of all trades 
and master of none." Some rare mind may do many things well, but 
there is one thing that this same mind can excel in, and only one. 

Here another thought may be linked with those we have, and that 
is that the person of one idea is not to be despised. The man of one 
idea will generally make the world aware of the fact that his one idea 
can clear every obstacle from the road that leads to its success. Too 
many ideas hinder, rather than help. David would have met defeat in 
the armor of Saul. Paul, Luther, Morse, Watt, Singer, each had one 
idea. John Brown had one idea, and John Brown made that idea so 
prominent that men of greater learning than he made the mistake of 
trying to hang his idea with him. 

This links another thought. The world tries to ridicule what it 
does not understand, then to persecute it, then to murder it. The 
world is not aware — or else it forgets — that not an idea comes to the 
mind of man that is not bom of God, and is, like Him, immortal. Man 
looks on the outward appearance, and he talks glibly about success 



78 OUR HOUR ALONE 

and failure. May it not be possible that in all this universe there is 
not one failure? May it not be true — nay, more — is it not true, that 
not an accident has ever happened, or ever can? 

Our Sacred Graves 

One of every two friends must hold the hand of the other in fare- 
well at the entrance to the dark valley. 

"There is no union here of hearts, 
That finds not here an end." 

Ever since the blood of murdered Abel cried from the ground, 
death has been the common heritage of a common humanity. 

Human affection is more lasting than are these human bodies; 
hence there is a universal desire to make beautiful the sacred mounds 
that mark the places where sleep our sainted dead. 

There are places that have been made sacred by heroic deeds, devo- 
tion to principle, unselfish sacrifice for the good of mankind and for a 
patriotism that has faced death in its most appalling forms; but these 
are as unhallowed ground when compared with the grassy hillock 
where the mother, with bursting heart and tear-dimmed eyes, has seen 
the little, silent, cold form of her babe hidden from her sight until the 
archangel's trump shall wake 

"The myriads who slumber in earth's bosom." 
Prom the day when Abraham paid the children of Heth four hun- 
dred sheckles of silver for Ephron, or Machpeleh, that he might bury 
his wife, Sarah, the disposition of the dead bodies of the near and 
dear ones has been a question of vital importance, Joseph had an 
entire nation with him when he placed in the sepulchre the dear old 
father, Jacob. Before his own death he gave minute directions in 
regard to the disposition of his bones. Moses rests in an unknown 
grave. The illustrious kings of earth have died and were buried 
with their fathers. Earth has become a cemetery. The king and the 
beggar sleep together in the dust ; the frame of the sage of brightest 
intellect moulders in the clay with that of the unlettered savage. 

As the feet of the living tread the earth they make a hollow sound 
as they pass over the burial places of their progenitors. 

"All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands. 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Saves his own dashings — yet the dead are there! 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone." 



OUR HOUR ALONE 79 

The grave of Lazarus will never lose its interest for those who at 
its portals see the sympathizing man who shed the tear of sorrow for 
his friend, and in that man beholds the Almighty God whose words of 
power called from the cold embrace of death the noble brother over 
whom the tender, loving sisters wept and mourned. 

The grave where the body of Jesus was laid! What a profound 
interest centers about that hollow in the rock where Joseph of Ari- 
mathffia placed the body of the crucified Saviour ! All the other graves 
of earth would be places of utter hopelessness if we knew nothing of 
the grave where Christ ''became the first fruits of those who slept." 

The Lord of Glory had stood in Pilate's judgment hall and heard 
the railing accusations of the Jews ; He had endured the cruel scourg- 
ing; He had worn the crown of thorns, and from His brow the blood 
had oozed as harsh and cruel hands pressed the sharp points into His 
temples; He had heard the frenzied mob cry out, ''Away with him! 
Away with him ! Crucify him ! Crucify him ! ' ' He had toiled up the 
steep acclivity of Calvary bearing the heavy cross; the nails had 
pierced His hands and feet ; He had hung between the earth and the 
heavens, a spectacle to men and to angels; for three hours a strange 
darkness had veiled the face of nature ; the earth trembled in the 
throes of a mighty earthquake ; the graves were opened and the silent 
and sheeted dead took up their solemn spectral march through the 
narrow, tortuous streets of Jerusalem, when the expiring Saviour 
cried out, "Elio, Elio, Lama Sabachthani," "My God, my God, why 
hast thou forsaken me?" It was the close of the most sublime and 
wonderful tragedy that ever will be enacted on this earth. The Jew- 
ish Sabbath approaches; Joseph begs the body of Jesus; he wraps it 
in the habiliments of the grave and places it in a new sepulchre, 
** wherein never man was lain." The story is familiar to all; the seal- 
ing of the sepulchre ; the placing of the guards ; the coming of the 
angels ; the resurrection of the Lord ; the visit of the women ; the meet- 
ing with the disciples; the indubitable proofs that he is the risen 
Saviour — these are historical facts. 

But how do these facts relate to us? If they do not touch our 
lives somewhere they are valueless to us. Herbert Spencer says: "It 
may be a fact that my neighbor's cat has seven kittens; but before you 
ask me to ponder it, tell me how that fact is related to me." The 
grave at Jerusalem touches all our lives because it brings to our 
knowledge the fact that there is a resurrection from the dead, that man 
is immortal, that he is a candidate for two worlds, and that God will 
call the sleeping millions of the world out of their graves and into His 
presence. 

And so we stand beside the graves where sleep our dead, and 
though the tear of affection may dim the physical eye, the eye of 



80 OUR HOUR ALONE 

faith looks far beyond the stretch of time and sees the loved and lost 
on earth, found and reunited in heaven. 

No wonder that the most sacred spot in all the world is where 
the dust of our loved ones is waiting the sound of the trump that shall 
call it again to life. No wonder we make beautiful the cemeteries 
where they are buried. No wonder that we erect monuments to keep 
their memory from fading from the earth. No wonder that , 

"Today we search the snowy vine, 

And cull the fairest rose. 
As meet the marble to entwine. 

Where low, in calm repose, 
Beneath the cold memorial stone. 

In silence mournful, deep. 
Our voiceless brave, fair freedom's own. 

The nation's favorites sleep." 

Symmetrical Development 

That system of education that aims at nothing except the intel- 
lectual capacity of the pupil, must be defective. It matters not how 
carefully the intellect is trained, if the other faculties that go to make 
up the human mind are neglected, the man will be out of proportion, 
and may be compared to the oak that has grown prodigiously to top 
all on one side of the trunk ; the more growth, the greater will be the 
disproportion of the parts; and the more unattractive the tree will 
become. It is an indisputable fact, that the present is a time in which 
this false system of education prevails to an alarming extent. Man is 
an intellectual, physical, social and moral animal. His intellectuality 
may be developed while the other three may remain in a manner dor- 
mant. The man then becomes a thinking machine, and his conclu- 
sions may be just or erroneous, as he happens to reason correctly or 
incorrectly. Let the physical part be educated at the expense of all 
the others, and man becomes a dancing master, unable to think, to 
reason, to reach conclusions; in fact, he is but an imitator, devoid of 
ideas, and, therefore, devoid of originality. Let the social faculties 
be the only ones trained, and man becomes a creature unable to think, 
careless of his physical structure, but noted for those that constitute 
the good neighbor; the judgment of his fellows, at the close of his 
life, will be that he was always ready to add to the enjoyment of 
others, and delighted more in the society of men than of books. Let 
the moral nature have all the care bestowed on it, and man then 
becomes what we are pleased to term fanatical. His is a revential 
nature that is ready to worship anything that he does not comprehend, 
and his education fits him for comprehending only the simplest and 
most apparent phenomena. We have already stated that such a system 



OUR HOUR ALONE 81 

must be faulty. The educator who has no broader comprehension of 
his duties is like a gardener who would plant all hollyhocks one sea- 
son, all roses the next, and all violets the next. Or he may be com- 
pared to the man who would trim all the branches from one side of his 
trees and trim only one side of his hedgerows. He might work earn- 
estly, faithfully, conscientiously; but he never would have a garden 
that would be admired, a tree that showed beauty, or a hedge that 
would appear attractive. A house may be builded just the right height, 
but if it be made too broad or too narrow, it will be unsightly. A pic- 
ture may be painted with the most beautiful colors, but if the trees are 
too large and the mountains too small, the effect will not be pleasing 
to the eye. It is in proportion that we find beauty; without it, all is 
deformity. If man is ever benefited by education it will be when 
those in charge of that important subject become aware that all of 
the elements in man must be developed. His intellectual, his physical, 
his social and his moral nature must each be kept in harmony, must all 
have a symmetrical proportion. Man, to think, must have physical 
developments; to think right he must be a social being, and to think 
rightly and for the good of others he must be a moral creature. The 
mind that is uneducated may think, but it will be to poor purpose. The 
mind that is in a frail or poorly developed body, though trained to 
think, will accomplish but little. The trained mind and the devel- 
oped body will benefit the human race but little if they have no per- 
ception of, or love for, sociability. And all of these will be worse 
than useless if a sense of moral obligation keep not all the other facul- 
ties and powers under the control of just and equitable laws. Without 
morality there is no veneration; without veneration, no love; without 
love, man is not human. Lacking morality, man is the powerful 
engine without a governor. He is the ship without a rudder. He is a 
god without a purpose. He is a planet without an orbit. These con- 
siderations should be present with every one who goes about to instruct 
his fellow. It should be impressed on the heart and conscience of 
every man who aspires to teach the young. With this idea promi- 
nently and constantly before one, he may be a success as a teacher; 
without it, he must be infinitely worse than a failure. 

The Age of Transition 

This is an age of transition. We are aware that this may be 
said of any age; but it is more applicable to the present, and in a 
greater degree, than to any that has preceded it. It is true also 
in a greater degree to thought and belief than to custom and habit. 
The iconoclast is busy everywhere. He is tearing down the old ; his 
daring hand lays hold of the old idols, shakes them from their pedes- 
tals, and they lie before us broken fragments that never can be 



82 OUR HOUR ALONE 

reunited ; he touches governments, and they cease to bind the subject ; 
he reaches out — without fear of sacrilege — to touch creeds and dogmas 
— sacred with age, that have bound the minds of men, and these creeds 
and dogmas are modified, if not changed altogether, or remodeled until 
they are no longer the sacred object that former generations loved, 
idolized, worshipped, but dared not criticize ; he reaches out to destroy 
all that traditions, history, and custom have endeared to the hearts 
of millions for ages past. 

It is small wonder that he is opposed in this vandal destruction; 
small wonder that he is ostracized and persecuted. But his work 
is only retarded, not stopped; only delayed, not turned aside. His 
very boldness draws the hearts of his opposers towards him. When the 
missionary went into the heathen stronghold and asserted that the 
great, ugly, senseless image was not a god, he aroused all the latent 
opposition of those whom ages of training in one direction had ren- 
dered incapable of reasoning correctly on this subject; nay, more, 
it aroused the indignation of those whom education — such as it was — ■ 
had rendered too servile to dogma to question a creed. They were 
sure that thought, feeling, purpose, health, happiness, life, death, and 
immortality were in the keeping of this image. 

But when long and persistent attacks had been made, in studied 
discourses, against this power, and still the idol did not punish the 
offender, they began to entertain the devil doubt; at length the mis- 
sionary reached forth his hand and pushed the idol from the pedestal 
where he had sat for ages. It lay there, an impotent thing ; and when 
its votaries saw that it was but a lump of senseless clay, they fell 
upon it in rage, stamped it into powder, and cast the dust into the 
river. It is thus that more enlightened and better educated people are 
willing to accept dogmas for truth, and permit some creed that noth- 
ing but age has venerated, prevent them from letting reason examine, 
or intellect investigate them. 

The iconoclast is the missionary who comes to push the idol from 
its pedestal, and show us that much that we have venerated, nay, even 
worshiped, is but an ugly idol, incapable of either good or evil. We 
sometimes fear the iconoclast ; we have no need to do so. It is only 
error that can fall. Not one single truth can be obliterated ; it is 
eternal. Error is like the idol ; it sits so loosely that the slightest touch 
dethrones it, and it is destroyed. But truth is like the Druid rocks, so 
evenly balanced that though they may be rocked with the tip of the 
little finger, yet the united strength of thousands is not able to over- 
turn them. The history of man is the history of progress. Truth, 
right, justice, are always safe. No fear that they will be destroyed; 
no danger that they will be changed. Error is mortal; it crumbles 
under the touch of the destroyer. But truth is immortal and the hand 
that touches it to destroy is paralyzed. Investigation, discussion, con- 



OUR HOUR ALONE 83 

troversy, these are but the test of what has real worth. From every 
contest right emerges in triumph, while error, in defeat, hides its 
wounded form. 

Education of the Boy 

Ministers, we sometimes think, preach as if there were no boys 
to listen to them. This can scarcely be less than a fault in a minister. 
The old men will very soon all pass away in the ordinary course of 
mortality. But the boys are to grow up and fill the places thus made 
vacant. If it be important to preach to old men, then it must be no 
less important to preach to the boys. If a farmer goes out to feed his 
stock, he is careful to place some of the provender where the younger 
animals can reach it. It is poor policy to place things out of the 
reach of any portion of the community — that is, if it be of any benefit 
to any of them. What we condemn as a fault in ministers, we fear, 
is, to too great an extent, prevalent among those who preach to larger 
congregations through the medium of the press. They, too, seem to 
fall into the habit of directing their praise, blame, or censure to the 
older members of the community, and forget that there is growing up 
in every town, and every community, a class, who, though young and 
inexperienced now, will soon stand in the front rank of that busy, 
pushing, jostling, eager army that marches over the stage of life, 
attracts the attention of the audience through a few gaudy scenes, and 
then enter the green room of obscurity and forgetfulness. The boy 
must be taught, or he will teach others. His mind is a blank page 
that will either be covered with beautiful characters by the pen of the 
master, or it will be blotted and blotched with useless splotches of ink. 
His mind is a garden that must be cultivated, and whose soil must be 
made to yield fruit and grain, or it will be cumbered with useless 
weeds and overgrown with thistles that will sting those who come 
in contact with them. In the country a boy is more safe from harm. 
If he goes out he is in the presence of nature in some of her charming 
moods ; he may learn some useful lesson from almost any object, either 
animate or inanimate, that he comes in contact with ; the grass grows 
up to ask him how it springs ; the flowers bloom to ask him who clothed 
them in their regal beauty; the trees nod, and swing their giant arms 
to ask him who imparted to them strength and beauty; the brook 
murmurs to inquire who cut its tortuous channel in the rocks; the 
golden grain waves and undulates to inquire who provideth food for 
man ; the cattle feeding on the hills start the query of how long man 
has fed his flocks and herds ; the ants teach him industry; the bee asks 
him to examine her wonderful mechanical skill; the wind fans his 
cheek and keeps whispering, ''Canst thou tell whence I come, or 
whither I go?" the rain teaches him that even nature weeps; the snow 
that crystals form. No ; there is but little danger for boys who learn 



84 OUR HOUR ALONE 

only from nature ; they will never learn to lie, to swear, to be obscene, 
vulgar, or wicked in such a way. But it is different in towns and 
cities; here the boys come in direct contact, not with nature, but with 
art ; not with innocence, but vice ; not with purity, but crime. On the 
street is the man who chews, smokes, drinks, swears, talks obscenely, 
sings the vulgar song, lies, cheats, steals, murders, robs virtue, deifies 
vice and glories in his shame. On the street corner, in the alley, in 
shops, stables, stores, in fact, everywhere is seen the form of the 
monster evil, looking to the unsophisticated youth, just as pure as 
virtue. It is to these youths, thus lured to evil now, but soon to be 
active participators in the great struggle of life, that we would speak 
in this Hour Alone. We are not going to ask you to become old men, 
or forego youthful pleasures, or read the Bible daily, or join Sunday 
school, or listen to long, dull sermons, though some of these things 
would never injure you or make you less brave or effective soldiers 
in life. But we do wish to ask you what good sin, vice, crime, de- 
bauchery, drunkenness has ever done any one? What good will it 
do you ? We do not ask that you be religious in order that you may be 
prepared for death, but that you be moral in order that you may be 
fitted for life. Not that we substitute morality for religion. Far 
from it ; that would be attempting to make the effect the cause ; but we 
are asking the attention of boys to something that all must see at a 
glance will benefit all. You may not be able to attain to what you 
could wish ; but you can come nearer to excellence if you will take the 
advice given by an eminent writer to a boy who was just going away 
to school: "Remember never to be mean, never to be unjust, never to 
be cruel." If the boys who read this article will follow this advice, 
to which we would add, never be selfish, and never, never forget your 
mother, we will be willing to predict that if you are not successful in 
life, you will at least gain the confidence and esteem of the good, the 
wise, the happy. 

"And Answer Only With a Cry" 

The word cry is in itself pathetic. It expresses some longing 
want, or it bewails something that has been lost. It is, therefore, 
nearly universal, for man is either wanting or losing. Never satisfied 
with what he now has, he is crying out for something he does not have, 
and very often for what must ever remain beyond his reach. We 
might reflect here. Why this unrest? Why discontent, when content 
would be heaven? The philosopher — who is knocked out in his first 
round with a blade of grass — can scarcely hope to answer questions 
such as these. Man searches deep in nature's hidden mines, and brings 
to light much that is new and strange and precious. But is he then 
at ease? Not for the life of one short moment. He speculates till 
fever wraps him with its blistering touch, on what may still be hid, 



OUR HOUR ALONE 86 

and lie concealed, locked up forever in the bowels of the rocky world ; 
and but the chance that something lies beyond his reach, below his 
stretch, that some one else may find when he has crumbled back to 
dust, will wring from him a cry; and as he eager listening frets, the 
earth that stores and hides and locks, will answer only with a cry. 

Nature has guarded long and well those mysteries that lie to 
northward and to southward, locked up in icy fastnesses, and kept thus 
far from the inquisitive eye of man by frozen barriers that none, as 
yet, have passed; watched over these secrets are by frowning preci- 
pices of ice that stand as silent sentinels to challenge the restless spirit 
of adventure that sees no danger and feels no fear while rankles in its 
breast the thought that yonder, where the poles are placed, is some- 
thing barred from man. And as these brave men lingering die on fields 
of glittering ice, we hear a cry; or if they, more fortunate, return to 
busy haunts of man, they utter still a cry; and nature, who has kept 
the poles beyond their reach and ken, but answers with a cry. 

These are the cries of intellect, of courage, of daring, of manhood, 
of strength. If such as these have a cry, then every age in life must 
have a cry. How pitiful, how appealing, how helpless is the cry of the 
infant, as it looks up into the faces of those who would gladly supply 
its wants could they but understand them. Have you not stood by a 
cradle and looked down into the eyes of a babe, and seen the revela- 
tion of a new unfolding spread out before you, and realized that God 
had just opened to you a wonderful and beautiful page of the book of 
your existence; and as you listened to the wailing cry, you said, "Oh 
Lord ! teach me, and show me my duty to this little one. ' ' Happy, but 
serious parent, if standing by the crib of your first born you should 
be thus stirred to the innermost, and you utter an earnest cry for 
wisdom to direct your love aright. I know nothing more appealing, 
more pathetic than the cry of a helpless babe. 

Youth has a cry; a hopeful, and therefore a joyful cry. It asks 
for more freedom, more responsibilities, larger opportunities, a chance 
to do and dare in the great battle of life. Ah! in all the universe of 
God there is not so hopeful, so earnest, so anxious, so peristent a 
cry as that of the youth who is asking for the fuller duties of manhood ; 
nor is there one that realizes so little of what it clamors for. Utter 
thy joyous cry, Oh youth ! for in a few short years it will be lost in the 
noise of the strife. 

Manhood and womanhood have their cries ; they are backward for 
what is already past, and forward for what is in the future — a cry for 
success, for wealth, for fame ; it is a strong cry, loud enough to rise 
above the turmoil of a maddening, struggling world rushing and striv- 
ing for victory. Oh ! the thrill of the cry of manhood and womanhood ! 



86 OUR HOUR ALONE 

It is the boldest, bravest, strongest and most penetrating that has, or 
will, awake the slumbering echoes of a world. 

Age has its cry ; it is not like the cry of the infant — an appeal ; it is 
not like the cry of youth — a demand; it is not like the cry of man- 
hood and womanhood — a desire. It reaches over the cry of manhood 
and youth, joins the cry of the infant, for both are helpless, hopeless 
cries; in the first hope not having sprung into life, in the second hope 
being dead. Ah ! the intensity of the cry of age ! Done with the wants 
of the child ; done with the demands of the youth ; done — aye, disgusted 
with the ambitions of manhood, age utters a cry for rest. White hairs, 
wrinkled face, feeble hands, tottering steps, and — a cry. Is life a cir- 
cle, and do we moil its weary march, and stand at last by the cradle 
where we first started, the second time a child? 

I am tempted here to speculate beyond where my readers of the 
Banner might care to follow. I, too, have paced the circle more than 
two-thirds round, and age grows garrulous, if not wise. But sitting 
here this lovely night, with nature spread all about me, and the silent 
little city lying before me, I realize that I may speak but seldom to you 
in the future, if at all. And so I would not say good-bye until I 
remind you that there is another, and a more important cry that comes 
to childhood, youth, manhood and age — the cry of the human heart for 
God. It is but the utterance of a divine impulse. It is but the expres- 
sion of the great want, the mighty need of man. I do not, I cannot, 
believe that there is now, or ever has been, a human heart that, some- 
where, at some time, in some way, has not cried out for God. This cry 
is the divine in man going around the circle and meeting the divine 
in God. It is the cry after a nobler, a higher, a truer, a better life. 

Changes 

Again alone ; again rested ; none but those who know the tortures 
of an overworked body and overtasked brain, can realize how much 
these expressions mean. 

As we stood tonight, looking up through the young foliage of a 
stately maple tree that stands by the old summer kitchen, and spreads 
its shadows over the quaint old brick smokehouse, with its cracked 
walls and savory smell left by the countless joints that have been 
colored in it, to the bright May moon, sailing in unclouded majesty 
through a serene sky, and we caught the scent from two sprangling 
plum trees, now in full bloom, and appearing, if possible, more beauti- 
ful than ever in the glow of the bright sunlight, looking like a huge 
whitecapped wave, or the snow-covered summit of some far-away 
mountain, we were forcibly reminded — not for the first time, but 
again — that inevitable change is not only certain, but sudden. And 



OUR HOUR ALONE 87 

we remembered that a short time ago — but a very short time, it seems — 
we spent an hour alone wandering along the edge of one of our beau- 
tiful groves, musing on the crimson glories of richly tinted October, 
that told us the vegetation of the summer was entered on its decline, 
and that icy fetters would soon bind tiny brooklet, rushing stream and 
mighty river in bondage. 

Then we remember another quiet evening when silent and deserted 
streets gave us the chance for an uninterrupted hour, as we saw the 
pure, soft, feathery flakes of snow descending, we fell into the fancy 
to specify some of the different kinds of homes on which the shifting 
flakes were falling. 

And now as we stand here, trying in our imperfect way to realize 
the mighty power that has, in so short a time, wrought such marvel- 
ous changes, we can hardly believe that one was October, the other 
December, and that now May, "The merry month of May," is upon us. 

For a short season the glories of real Indian Summer lent a charm 
to nature, painting plant, and shrub, and tree, with those peculiar 
crimson dyes that lend a charm we could not wish were gone, even 
though we realize that, like the hectic flush on the check of the de- 
clining consumptive, they are but the sure heralds of approaching 
death. 

This was followed by the long, rigorous and dreary winter, with 
its, to us of Illinois, overplus of snow, and its keen, biting, searching 
blasts that bring such discomfort and suffering to the ill prepared 
poor. 

But tonight the evidences of another change are here. Spring- 
ing grass, shooting blade, expanding leaf, bursting bud and opening 
flower, proclaim that the winter of apparent death is over, and that 
the voice of the Omnipotent has been heard in every realm of nature, 
bidding everything come forth to a resurrection that is no less won- 
derful than that spoken of in revelation. 

It would be a task both pleasing and sad, could we note all the 
changes that have touched the lives of the readers of the Banner; 
but they have been too numerous to attempt it ; new friendships have 
been formed, old ones severed ; new habits been learned, old ones for- 
saken; those long associated been separated, those long separated re- 
united ; friendship has ripened into love, and love into its natural state 
of marriage, while marriage has ceased to be love, and resulted in 
divorce ; hopes have been born, nurtured and fulfilled, while other 
hopes have been born, cherished and blighted ; in a thousand ways such 
as these, important changes have come. 

But the mellow moonlight makes visible the monuments that 
mark the resting places of the peaceful dead — for from our place 
here they are plainly visible, — and they remind us that the last winter 



88 OUR HOUR ALONE 

has been one remarkable for diseases of different kinds, and for the 
number who have lain down the weary burden of life and gone 
to rest. 

The careful reader of the current news has not failed to notice 
this; nor that death has been no respecter of persons. The king and 
his subject, the prince and the peasant, the high and the low, the 
rich and the poor, the learned and the unlearned, all have yielded to 
his scepter. 

Some parents have lost all their children, some a part ; some 
children have lost one parent, some both. While in other cases whole 
families have gone down together, not separated even in death. 

Earthquakes, war, pestilence, famine, disease, storm, flood, ac- 
cident all have been busy decimating the ranks of the living and add- 
ing to the number of the dead. 

The number of mounds in our own sacred spot tells that in this 
change Yates City has had her share; and the report comes up all 
around us that those who were identified with the early settlement 
of Illinois have ceased from their labors. 

Sad, sore hearts weep over idols that have fallen from our grasp 
and been shattered ; we carry a grief concealed but poignant and real, 
and we wonder how it can be that we have been so stricken. But 
we rejoice that May has brought her wealth of flowers to furnish 
wreaths with which to decorate the graves of the loved and lost. 

But let us not forget, dear readers of the Banner, that we owe 
duties to the living as well as grateful remembrance to the dead. 
Let us ask, are we better and stronger for the battles of life that 
remain, because of the experiences of the past, and the defeats and 
triumphs of those days that are past? 

To stand bravely in our allotted station in life, and discharge its 
duties faithfully, with a sincere desire to do right for the sake of right, 
is the highest ambition that can animate us here. It matters not what 
our station may be ; the true hero is he or she who does his or her 
duty in a faithful manner. 

May the genial summer season now approaching renew our hopes, 
our confidence, our efforts to do our duty, and let not man judge his 
fellow man harshly is our wish as we bid you good night. 

The Limitless Possibilities of a Soul 

The amount of certain knowledge is so small that man may well 
be classed as a doubter. What is meant by this statement is that 
while a great many things are absolutely known, there are so many 
more that are not so known that the former bears the same relation 
to the latter that time does to eternity. The number of people who 



■i i 



OUR HOUR ALONE 89 

realize how little they really know is very, very small. Man — taken 
in a general way — is very much of a pretender. He is too proud to 
confess that what he has not found out is far more than what he has. 
The four decades that the most favored of mortals can hope to use 
in investigating the things that surround them is too quickly passed 
for much to be accomplished. The mind of man is lost in the con- 
templation of one universe; and there are countless millions of uni- 
verses lying beyond his most boundless conception, the mysteries of 
the smallest of which it would take him countless ages to enumerate, 
much less to understand. This is not to be wondered at when we 
remember that it is not possible for the finite to fully grasp the idea 
of the infinite. God is a word of but three letters, and yet it is the 
most wonderful in any language. God has existed from eternity, is 
easily said, but if the coming eternity were spent in going back into 
it, the journey would be but entered upon. God's universe, what does 
it mean? It has, it can have, no limit. God is the centre, and around 
Him are worlds, suns, systems, without end. It took infinite power to 
create an atom, it took no more to create a world. A limited power 
could not make one world; an unlimited power has no limit to the 
worlds it may create. And yet after the most stupenduous effort to 
realize the utter vastness of what creative skill and wisdom can do, 
it is a fact that the possibilities of a soul goes far beyond the vastness 
or the mystery of all things besides. Whatever is of the material 
creation is subject to change, if not to destruction; the soul, a spark 
of Deity, can never die. The feeblest infant, whose wail scarce stirred 
the smallest wave of air, then ceased, will stand in quenchless life, 
amid the wreck of matter and the crash of worlds. Man's intelligence 
were the veriest mockery if no knowledge were possible after the 
change called death. Man attains to much even when the soul is fet- 
tered in a prison house of clay, and hampered by an unnumbered 
myriad of circumstances. What may he not know when freed from 
sensual surroundings? An ancient philosopher said, "give me a ful- 
crum for my lever, and I will lift the world." May not the candidate 
for eternity say, "give me time and I will know all things." Time! 
Who lacks for time when in an eternal state ? Who doubts the power 
of God to comprehend? Who doubts the soul's capacity to learn, if 
the soul be but a part of God? Who is to limit the soul's achieve- 
ments when it is separated from the power to forget? Who shall say 
that in the eternal ages man may not become perfect in knowledge? 
Every effort put forth by the soul will but make it more capable of 
a still greater effort. The poet expressed no idle words without mean- 
ing when he said: "We shall know as we are known." The Creator 
knows us perfectly. Shall we not know perfectly also? We know 
that the grass grows. May we not sometime know how it grows? 
We know that life is. May we not be able to understand 



90 OUR HOUR ALONE 

how life originates? In one deep sense all that confronts us 
here is mystery, and yet he to whom all is thus a mystery is the 
most stupendous mystery of all. And if these thoughts that 
come in this Hour Alone have foundation, and man is thus to go from 
gradation to gradation higher still, and no end come to his expanding 
powers, how gross a crime it is for him who says that death ends all. 
He rises scarce beyond the brute who eats to live, and lives that he 
may die. Better the brute without a future wish, if not a future 
wish is to be realized. Better the senseless stone that shows no out- 
ward evidence of the pitiless peltings of the elements, if in another 
state of existence man does not begin to learn, and ceases to forget. 
And if our thoughts be true, and man has every possibility wrapt in 
this human soul, how careful should he be to preserve the germ that 
in the genial clime of the eternal world will germinate, and grow, 
and bloom with fragrance sweet, and bear such wondrous fruit. 

Discipline of the Boy 

Just what shall be done with the boys is a question that rises up 
to harass and worry every parent who has had any experience. It 
is a question that is intensified by the lax ideas of family discipline 
that prevail, and the loose manner of enforcing family government 
that has become so popular of late years. It is a question by no means 
settled, that boys are any better under the new, than under the old 
regime ; it is a problem that is not yet satisfactorily solved, that the 
modern ideas will give us any better boys, or that under their influence 
we will obtain any more satisfactory results. It is possible, yea more, 
it is probable that the discipline of the family, in days gone by, was 
too strict, too puritanical, too narrow and too bigoted. But under 
it some grand results were obtained, and from its wholesome teachings 
spring some of the grandest characters that have graced the history 
of the human race. It is true that it had its faults, but it 
is not less true that it had its advantages ; and those, too, of 
such a character that no methods since employed have been able 
to find substitutes for. It has been popular to blame the spoiling 
of a boy, reared at that time, to puritanical teachings and Presbyterian 
rigor. But to what are we to attribute like results at the present time, 
if these charges were true? Is there any difference in regard to the 
ideas held by the boys fifty years ago, and those of today, in regard 
to keeping a seventh part of the time as a day of rest? It was to the 
boy of fifty years ago a day of emphatic rest, not only from labor, 
but from all amusements as well. He spent it at home, learning les- 
sons of rigid and stern integrity and honesty from austere parents, 
or in the church, under the watchful eye of the same careful guardians. 
If he learned to wish for the appearance of Monday, he at the same 



OUR HOUR ALONE 91 

time learned to respect his fellow man, and be honest. If he made 
but little progress in the narrow road where his elders purported 
to be traveling, he had but few opportunities to rush down the broad 
and descending road that was crowded with the sons of unrighteous- 
ness. Right here we wish to ask those who will condemn these ran- 
dom thoughts — for we are sure there are such — what good points in 
morals, in manners, in character or in any respect, is gained by per- 
mitting a total disregard for this day of rest to prevail? We are not 
asking this in the narrow channel of our religious views — which we 
have no desire to conceal, and which are clear, strong and emphatic — 
for we are aware that a large number, failing to start with our premises 
will miss our conclusions ; but we appeal to you, as those who are alike 
interested with us in morals, in manners, and in good citizenship; 
have we not gone too far in our endeavor to correct the abuses of 
our bigoted and narrowminded — at least so called — fathers? Have 
we not only escaped the whirlpool where they were wrecked, but also 
gone far enough to enter a vortex that proves not less fatal? Young 
people will take but little interest in this subject. Even young parents 
will not become overly interested in the theme. But when we come 
to those whose children are standing on the crossroads of life, those who 
have learned to realize the full import of the declaration, "We live 
again in our children," we will meet those who, even though they 
condemn our conclusions, and mentally, at least, controvert our 
theories, will thank us for having made a few suggestions on a sub- 
ject that, to them, is of the most vital importance. We may say with 
some degree of truth, that we do not care what the world says or 
thinks about us, but we dare not say this of our children. We wish 
to see them respected, happy, honored ; and if they become so, we are 
surely interested in the question, what shall we do to train them 
aright ? 

Fortitude 

There are a great many attributes that come up and present them- 
selves as pertaining to the human soul, and beg for special recognition. 
At an hour like this, when the solemn silence of midnight broods over 
the city, and we settle down to work in our shining mine to try to 
dig out some gem of thought for the readers of the Banner, we scarce 
know which to give our feeble attention to. Is not the human soul 
made up of attributes? And here they come trooping by in regular 
order and with military precision! Hope, fear, anger, love, hate, and 
— may we not say fortitude ? We like that bold, strong, brave English 
word, "fortitude," and we will just let envy, revenge, and a large 
number of other attributes of the human soul go by us unheeded for 
the present, and we will jot down the rambling thoughts that may 
come to us this hour in which fortitude is necessary. 



92 OUR HOUR ALONE 

If this life, on which many of the Banner readers are just enter- 
ing with so much zest and so many fond anticipations was all that 
youthful fancy paints it, then, indeed, would fortitude not be so req- 
uisite a characteristic in the make-up of human beings. 

It is not our purpose to disenchant the fairyland of youth of its 
beauty and glory, or deprive its occupants of a single joy its fancy 
painted fields can afford them. No, we would not disturb those fair 
sleepers whose dreams are all beatific visions. We are glad that youth 
does not know the real meaning of the word fortitude, and indeed we 
would be only too glad if these dreams could always last. 

But we are not sure that this ideal, even were it obtainable, is 
to be desired all through life. It is pleasant always to look on beau- 
tiful pictures, to gaze on serene skies, to sail on placid waters, to 
walk in smooth roads, to climb gentle declivities, to linger in shady 
groves, and bask in genial sunlight. But this would be a state of 
repose, rather than of action, and fortitude would be but little needed. 

But it is action that calls out our latent energies, and teaches 
us self-reliance. It is well to sometimes view hideous pictures, to 
look on darkened skies, to climb rugged and steep mountains, to sail 
on rough and treacherous waters, to encounter scorching suns, and 
become familiar with nature in her rougher moods. 

It matters but little, however, what we may wish, we will no 
doubt find that life is a constant struggle, and that fortitude is neces- 
sary to enable us to meet its requirements at all. 

To learn to cultivate fortitude is, therefore, a duty, for we will 
find sore need for it along the rough, uneven ways of life. 

Have the bright prospects of your earlier years become clouded 
over and dimmed? Have friends, once trusted, been found false? Have 
riches taken wings and left you to meet the jeers and scoffs and ridicule 
of those more favored? Has health departed? Has beauty faded? 
Have prospects been blasted? Or, what is sadder still, have those 
who were the fond objects of your affection and esteem been called 
into the dreaded unknown? Have you watched their fading forms 
and marked the daily gathering signs that the sad and solemn hour 
was approaching? Have you hoped, and feared, and doubted and 
prayed, with oh! such bitter agony, that they might be spared? If 
you have, then you know something of the attribute known as forti- 
tude. If you have not, then be sure that some of these things are in 
store for you, and be prepared to meet them with that calmness and 
manly dignity that only fortitude is capable of giving. 

Our fortitude has beautiful proportions, and we have spent this 
fleeting hour, we trust, to good advantage to ourselves, and, may 
we hope, not without benefit to others. We know that many, stand- 
ing in the ways of life, about where we stand tonight, perhaps with 



OUR HOUR ALONE 93 

no less of the misfortunes and ills of life to mourn over, and no less 
mistakes to lament and deplore, will feel a responsive chord touched 
in their sore hearts ; and we also feel that those young people who read 
the Banner will, as the years crowd on, and the cares of life thicken, 
and its sorrows deepen, thank us that our thoughts tonight were of 
that character that may be made of some practical utility in after 
life. For it is true that the teaching that does not apply to the every- 
day duties of life has but little lasting value. 

With a sincere wish that every one of us may have fortitude to 
take up his allotted burden in life and perform every known duty 
to the best of his ability, we say to all, a kind good night. 

Sympathy 

Tonight we have been spending our sacred hour, revolving in our 
mind the reflection of what constitutes the great distinctive character- 
istic between man and the lower order of animals. 

The subject is of too much interest to be treated upon in the 
time we are able to give it now. But we can hardly, even at the risk 
of doing injustice to the subject, refrain from giving the readers of 
the Banner the thoughts that have come to us on that point during 
this silent hour. 

It would be idle to attempt to answer the curious query by point- 
ing out the difference of the conformation of the body, or the size and 
texture of the brain, or the fact that there is a line somewhere be- 
tween instinct and reason; or by claiming that the lower animals 
do not reason at all. We say this would be idle; for while either 
of those points, no doubt, are susceptible of more or less demonstra- 
tion, yet there is a degree of similarity in each case, that causes a 
vague sense of something not quite clear on the mind. 

But there is one point that is so clearly marked out that we are 
led to believe that it was intended to exhibit, in an unmistakable 
manner, the difference between the mortal and the immortal, between 
the lower animals and man. That characteristic is sympathy. We do 
not mean to allude here to the affinity of species — if that be a correct 
expression — nor yet to that maternal love that has been implanted 
in everything that lives, and was designed for the wise purpose of 
shielding and protecting the young through the helpless stages of 
the beginning of life ; but we refer to sympathy as a distinct feature. 
That quality of the mind that is touched by suffering, not in our- 
selves, but in others. Phenomenal cases may exist where something 
nearly akin to this feeling is observable in the brutes, and the 
almost total lack of it is found in that that passes as human; but 
these cases, when closely studied, are rare ; in fact do no more 



94 OUR HOUR ALONE 

than make the exceptions that are said to be a necessary element in 
a genuine rule. 

We are glad this sympathy is given to man. No trait is more 
noble, or shines out with more brilliancy in humanity than this one. 
When reason is occupying her throne, and guiding the impulses of 
the mind, it is not possible for humanity to look unmoved on suffer- 
ing. When we look at the picture of society with this sympathy in 
it, it looks to us as though no human artist could have conceived it. 
When we look at the picture without it, there is seemingly no con- 
ception about it. The life, the soul, the beauty, the proportion is gone. 
And there remains but a mass of irregular lines, a colored canvas 
that has been daubed, not painted. Without it humanity is a body 
without a soul. 

Take away sympathy and life becomes a dreary waste. Take it 
away, and you remove the sun from the solar system of humanity. 
With it life is the genial tropical land, covered with exuberant 
vegetation and rendered redolent with the mingled scent of a thou- 
sand aromatic plants ; birds of rich and rare beauty nestle in the 
branches of umbrageous forests, and warble their sweet melodies in 
glad songs that are a very rapture to the soul. Take it away and that 
land of joy and beauty becomes the polar land where the glaciers 
have been moving toward frozen oceans with silent and resistless 
force for ages. 

Without it this world would be a dreary desert devoid of hope. 
It comes to all God's children irrespective of class or condition. When 
the dark cold wave of adversity comes to buffet us, sympathy comes 
to pour in the oil of gladness. 

When suffering comes, and pain racks the quivering body, it 
pours the alleviating cordial. 

The great Master, when on earth, did not take so much pains to 
prove His divinity. His incomparable miracles did that. But His 
humanity never would have rested on a sure foundation, had He not 
wept over the city of Jerusalem, or dropped the sympathizing tear 
at the grave of Lazarus. 

Let us stand by the bedside of a human being who is about to die. 
It matters not what relation we may have sustained in life. He may 
perchance have been our enemy; but the sight of his helpless con- 
dition, the mute appeal in his glazing eye, kindles in our bosom a 
spontaneous glow of sympathy that buries every resentment, and causes 
us to forget every past unkindness, and the heart melts into love and 
forgiveness, or in other words the divine image is unveiled, and the 
great, the grand, the glorious distinction between man and the lower 
animals stands out so clearly that we bow in reverence before it, and 



OUR HOUR ALONE 95 

worship it as the nearest conception of Deity that man ever realizes 
on earth. 

That the hidden idol of selfishness may not altogether monopolize 
our worship, and that we may be led to see to it that the "Genial 
current of the soul" be not frozen in its icy embrace, but be melted 
and warmed in the bright glow of human sympathy that feels for 
all, and in the feeling raises us nearer the Infinite and the Eternal, is 
our hope, as we lay aside our feeble pen, and bidding you, dear readers 
of the Banner, a kind adieu for the present, we turn again to the 
stern demands of the every day duties of life. 

Homeless Children 

This has been a bitter day. Keen, biting blasts have been search- 
ing out the little crevices, and have made it almost impossible to keep 
even comfortable. And as we sit here by a red hot stove, long after 
the light has disappeared from the last window, our thoughts go out 
to the children who are spending this comfortless night in such a great 
variety of homes. 

It may be that these thoughts would not have come to obtrude 
on our notice, had we not read in "Star's" Vermont letter, today, 
of a family at the place whose only fire this winter has been such 
sticks as were picked up by two little boys. 

"Star" makes some comments on that incident, and they have so 
much of truth in them, and contain so much food for serious reflec- 
tion that we are unable to get them out of our mind. 

There are many children who have no home of any kind. They 
know literally nothing about even a cheerless home, let alone one 
where joy, peace, plenty and contentment are the predominant fea- 
tures. When I think of them I am glad there is a beautiful story in 
the testament, of a living Savior who took little children in His loving 
arms and blessed them. And we hope that every one of those little 
homeless outcasts may yet come to that home He has so kindly pro- 
vided for all. 

Our mind takes in the vast multitude of children in the world, 
and then we can only regret that they do not all have good homes here 
on earth. Many of them we fear do not help to make their home 
pleasant and happy. Some are not at all thankful tonight that kind, 
loving parents are doing all in their power to shield them from the 
evils of the world in quiet homes. 

Then we fear there are parents who do not attempt to make 
home the most pleasant place on earth for their children. Too many 
can look back to their young days only to thank God that they are not 
to be lived over again. 



96 OUR HOUR ALONE 

Some parents are too strict at home; some are too lax. Both of 
these classes make miserable failures of home. 

One rules by fear only, and, of course, fails. Better never to have 
had a child than to have that child remember you only with a shudder. 

As a general rule it is from these ill regulated homes that come 
the ill starred brood who prey on society. It is from well regulated 
homes that come those who pray for society. 

We are aware that it is difficult to make homes of poverty and 
want, homes of peace and love. The bitter struggle of life tends to 
sour the disposition and ruffle the temper. But there are sorrows 
enough connected with even the most favored homes. There is the 
creaking, grinning skeleton in the closet; it may not be buried, it 
dare not be exhibited. 

Then there are the hopes and fears, the joys and sorrows, trials 
and difficulties of every day life. 

Great sorrows brood over many homes like black clouds that 
never can be scattered. Children are going out of those homes daily. 
Some to honor, some to shame. 

Death enters them and takes the fairest and best. "We stand help- 
lessly by and see them fade out, "As the flowers fade out in the chill 
Autumn air," and we follow them to their last resting place; then 
we return to feel that a sun has been blotted from our constellation, 
that a cherished idol has been broken. 

Yes, earth has enough of sorrow; and if the directing of our 
thoughts into this channel tonight tends to awaken in us a desire 
to make of home the purest, the sweetest, the dearest, the most 
cherished spot in all the wide world; if it shall have a tendency to 
induce some child to be more contented and happy in its home, 
whether it be adorned with the rich tapestry, velvet curtains and 
costly pictures that wealth can command, or in those less pretentious 
ones where the deft touch of woman's skillful fingers has made hum- 
bler walls assume more inviting forms of beauty, or yet in those where 
life is but a desperate fight with death, then will we thank our 
"Star" for the gems of thought that directed our mind into a field 
of such character that we have been enabled to glean some flowers 
of hope, some fruits of rare value for the dear readers of the Ban- 
ner, and will again wish them a sweet repose, and saying our ac- 
customed good night, will seek that rest which a tired body craves. 

To Young Men 

If this were the very last article of this nature that we ever 
expected to pen, we could wish that it might be devoted to the young 



OUR HOUR ALONE 97 

men who may read our paper. And our advice to them would be to 
cultivate a love of honesty, sobriety, truth and justice, and have a 
large and abiding faith in the goodness of humanity. In all of our 
dealings with the policies of parties we are led oftenest to point out 
defects. But we would not have any young man suppose for a 
moment that we do not have the strongest faith in the honesty, in- 
tegrity, ability and candor of the masses of all our people. 

That young man is far on the high road to ruin, who is convinced 
that there is no virtue left in his fellow men. 

There is a dark as well as a light side to life. It is well to look 
on the dark side; well to become familiar with all phases of human 
sorrow and human suffering. But it would not only be dangerous, 
it would be suicidal to let our minds dwell on these sorrows, these 
sufferings; and to rest our eyes forever on these dark colorings. To 
be manly we must associate with manly men. To do this we must 
seek them out, and then study their character, and strive to emulate 
their virtues. 

It has been well said that "people generally attribute those faults 
to others that they themselves, are most prone to." This no doubt is 
true. How careful then, ought we to be in our criticisms, how merci- 
ful in our judgment. 

Let our young men learn to do right ; let them choose the company 
of the wise and the good ; let them emulate the example of those whose 
monuments are in the hearts of the people among whom they have 
lived; let them shun the company of the wicked, the evil minded, 
the vicious, the bad. Let them shun every species of gambling; let 
them beware of the intoxicating cup. 

Oh ! If our young men only could see the end from the beginning, 
how would it startle and appall some of them. You have the example 
of the great and good of all ages; you have the warning of those 
who have made of their lives worse than failures; you are now on 
the very threshold of that busy life that you can live but once. How 
important that you start right ; how much depends on yourselves. 
Indeed everything depends on you. Your life will be just what you 
make it. Your history is being written daily. 

And if in the course of events this should be our last article, and 
we were sure of it, still we would close it by saying, young man, 
honor thy father, and forget not the love of thy mother, and remem- 
ber that in your own body are the successes or failures of life. 

But as at all other hours, the avenues of thought lead us out and 
on, and hoping your mind has been directed into some profitable 
channel, we say again, good night. 



98 OUR HOUR ALONE 

Influence of Religion 

It has been well said that "every man has his religion." There 
lives not a human soul in all God's good world tonight, who does 
not worship something. Such being the case, it is impossible to con- 
ceive of a world without religion, or a people not swayed by its 
influence. In this age of fast living and rapid development people 
are apt to sneer at the old, and court the new, especially if the new 
gives promise of a larger license to those passions that are so irksome 
under restraint. It is not our business here to defend isims or sys- 
tems ; we only wish to call attention to the fact that the world is largely 
indebted to the good old Bible and its religious system for much of 
what we now prize, and that it is to it we are indebted for the inspira- 
tion that has poured a stream of living fire on the pages of our most 
gifted authors. Of these we will advert to but a few. Bunyan's 
Pilgrim's Progress, that book that has swayed the hearts of millions, 
teaching them the great lesson of practical life, would never have 
appeared, had the religion of the Bible not existed. Burns, the gifted 
son of Scottish song, would sink from the proud eminence where he 
now sits enthroned the king of those who taught a true loyalty to 
country, did his "Cotter's Saturday Night" not exist, and it never 
would have existed had not the religion of the Bible previously 
existed, and been to him the embodiment of a living reality. 

Mrs. Hemans, whose mournful cadences have touched with a 
sublime pathos the hearts of all her readers would never have held 
the pencil she now wields, wields though dead, had she not drank at 
the pure fountain from whence flowed the Biblical stream. Destroy 
her faith in the God of revelation, and you annul her power over 
the understanding of the people. 

"Uncle Tom's Cabin" has wielded an influence greater than that 
of any other novel ever penned. But who will suppose, for a moment, 
that such a production would ever have appeared, had Mrs. Stowe not 
been a firm believer in the Holy Book? The tears that have welled up, 
dimming the eyes of the millions who have read her matchless produc- 
tion, are but millions of testimonials to the fact that no difference 
what our wish in the matter may be, still it was the influence of the 
teachings of the Bible, it is the influence it exerts today, that caused 
that simple narration to revolutionize a mighty people, change the 
institutions of a nation, and taught men to scorn oppression and wrong, 
and worship the genius of human freedom. 

It is boasted that this is an age of materialism ; but is it not, as 
well, an age of appalling crimes? Is my life as safe, is the prosperity 
and safety of government as sure in the keeping of those who have 
no moral restraint, as in the hands of those whose simple faith lays 



OUR HOUR ALONE 99 

hold of the Great Eternal as He is revealed in the scriptures, and 
personified in the Christian religion? 

That you, dear reader, may have time to reflect over so important 
a question, we w^ill again say, good night. 

A Ruined Life 

The swift wings of time have carried us forward a number of 
weeks, and we have not been able to get Our Hour Alone published. 
We did prepare one the week of Thanksgiving, but the typos were 
not able to get it set up. Several subjects have demanded our atten- 
tion, and some of them are laid up for future use. But one particular 
incident has lately come under our observation that has made an im- 
pression that we cannot shake off, and we think it contains a lesson 
for the young people who read the Banner. And as we know the one 
referred to would not object to our making this use of it, we will 
outline it, and leave the lesson to be drawn by the intelligent boys and 
girls who read the Banner. 

Some 24 years ago, while we lived west of Farmington, we became 
acquainted with a family in the poorer walks of life, but of more than 
ordinary intelligence. It was composed of the father, mother, two boys 
and three girls. The parents were of English birth, and were both 
willing to do their full share of the labor that inevitably falls to the 
lot of those in their station in life. The children were taught habits 
of industry, and were, at the same time, given the advantages of educa- 
tion afforded by the common schools. 

The father was addicted to the use of intoxicants, but was not 
considered a drunkard. The parents were neither of them church 
members, though they had no particular prejudice against religion, and 
seemed anxious to have the children attend Sunday School, and it 
was in this connection that we first took more than a passing interest 
in the oldest boy, who was bright in intellect and naturally possessed 
a high sense of honor. The children used to go with us to the Union 
school house, and often went up to the village to attend the morning 
session there. 

The fact that we were near neighbors, and that the family were 
sociable and kind, and the children nearly always on their good 
behavior, caused us to take more than a passing interest in them. But 
the family moved west; we were carried to a distant part of the 
county and for a time we lost track of them. We incidentally learned 
in the course of time that the oldest boy had grown up and married. 
For a few years we continued to hear from them occasionally. He 
seemed to be somewhat like his father — a good worker, a good fellow 
in many respects, but addicted to taking a dram, and afterward too 



100 OUR HOUR ALONE 

many of them. Soon after we came to Yates City we found them in 
a neighboring town, he engaged in good-paying employment, and she 
earning something too, for no children had come to cement the ties 
of the family. 

After a time we learned that both were out of employment here, 
and during the campaign we met him in Peoria. It was evident that 
the habit of intoxication was growing on him rapidly; it could be 
seen legibly written on every feature. 

A very few days ago we were in one of our sister towns on busi- 
ness, and just as we stepped on the platform we saw him approach- 
ing. He wore such a troubled look and seemed so changed since we 
had so recently met him that we were startled, and at once inquired 
if he was not sick. He shook his head and answered that he was not, 
that he was in trouble, and added that his wife had that day obtained 
a divorce. We expressed our surprise and asked what was the trouble. 
He answered in a careless way, "that it made no difference," and said, 
"I do not like to dwell on the subject." We went up town and did 
our errand and went back to the depot. Here we again met him, 
when he came up and apologized for his condition and said he was 
ashamed to meet us, as he was drunk. He said he had a ticket in his 
pocket to carry him to a distant western city, and said he did not 
blame his wife. "I have been a hard one," he remarked. He then 
referred to his father, who is buried in a distant State, and spoke of 
his mother, brothers, and sisters, and then referred to the old Sunday 
School days, remarking that he wished he had taken the advice of 
those he met there. He said it seemed but a few days since with us 
he attended those quiet Sabbath afternoon gatherings, and then he 
feelingly spoke of his condition now. 

He told us he meant to reform and spoke of what he ought always 
to have been. We tried to speak words of comfort to him, but oh! 
how poor seemed any words of ours as we stood in front of that 
wreck. He told us his now divorced wife would be up on the train 
that was to carry him from scenes that he now sincerely wished to 
get rid of forever. We told him that if in need of help to let us 
know, and he said it was a comfort to know that even one took some 
interest in him. 

While we were talking the train rushed up, the passengers 
crowded off, we saw a woman shake hands with him, the bell rang, 
the impatient engine bounded forward, and the lights of the station 
were soon lost to view. As we stepped off at Yates City he came 
out of the smoking-car, wrung our hand with an earnest grip, said 
he would be sober before morning, and added emphatically, "It is 
my last drunk." 



4 



OUR HOUR ALONE 101 

The groaning iron horse again bounded forward and we lost sight 
of him, for how long God only knows. But we stood there for some 
time amid the hurrying throng, trying to realize if the half-desperate 
man who had just left us could possibly be the same noble, earnest, 
hopeful boy who, in the peaceful summer evenings, used to go down 
the quiet lane with us toward the old school house. 

We have no desire to use this as a text or yet attempt to preach 
a sermon, but the incident cast a gloom over the whole evening, and 
we have not yet succeeded in getting the sad picture out of our mind, 
and we suppose this is the reason that it obtruded upon us in this 
silent hour and prevented us from giving our readers a more pleasant, 
if not so profitable, a subject. 

There are boys who will read this article standing just where he 
stood twenty-five years ago. There are fathers and mothers whose 
eyes will fall on this page who are casting an anxious glance to where 
their boy is now engaged in noisy sport, and they lift up a silent 
petition that such may not be his career. 

That some of our readers, who are now standing on the place 
where life's paths verge out into the great unknown, may shun the 
bitter pain of such an hour, we have thought best to make public 
this incident and we sincerely hope that all the boys who read the 
Banner may sow the good seed, for there is no escaping the harvest. 

Alone With Self 

There are few who are not cowards when brought face to face — 
if we may be allowed that form of expression — with themselves. 
Conscience, that inward monitor, placed there by the wisdom of a 
God, no doubt speaks out in clear tones of rebuke at wrong, or 
whispers commendation of the right, as well when we are in the crowd 
as when we are alone ; but the voice is not heard, or, if heard is not 
heeded. But let one be placed apart from all his fellows, be isolated 
from the crowd, be left to himself, and that little monitor whose voice 
was inaudible amidst the surging mass of humanity, will thunder 
out its denunciations of the wrong so loudly that we will stand in awe 
"As though an angel spake." 

Self examination is taught as a religious duty. It is claimed — ■ 
and rightly, too — that there is a direct warrant for it in the Bible. 
But it should not only be practised by those who are bound by creeds, 
it should be made a part of the discipline of the life of every one who 
has a desire to live a useful life among his fellows. It is not always 
easy to see the right and do it in the whirl, the excitement, the hurry 
and the turmoil of business. There may be a few equable tempers, 
minds of mature strength and exact equipoise, housed in bodies of 



102 OUR HOUR ALONE 

perfect build, where disease has never shattered the nerve system, and 
irritability is unknown, whose happy possessors are able to even up 
all transactions as they go along. But, if this be so, they are but the 
exceptions necessary to prove that the rule is a different class of beings 
entirely. The average mortal has not an equable temper; he has not 
a sound body; he is not possessed of a nerve force that has not been, 
and can not be irritated. He is not able to control himself, and angry 
passion rises, the hasty word is spoken, the unkind act is done that 
is injustice to our fellow men, and we scarcely realize it, or even 
think of it in the impetuous haste with which we are carried along. 
Indeed if some one would come to us and remind us that we had 
violated the laws that should govern us in our intercourse with our 
fellows, we would indignantly deny the accusation, and be ready to 
cast all the blame on those whom we have injured. 

But lay aside the cares of business, as the day closes, and twi- 
light deepens into the gloom of darkness, and spend the evening in 
the sacred precincts of home, in the midst of the family circle, — we 
know of no more sacred, no more consecrated spot in all God's uni- 
verse, than the place where husband and wife, father and mother, 
parents and children, brothers and sisters dwell in unity and peace, 
the place where they toil, and suffer, and rejoice, and sorrow, and 
hope, and fear, and pray, and offer up the sacrifices and the devo- 
tions that affection impels, the place that we call home, — let the mind 
become calm in the serene atmosphere of that sweetest spot on earth, 
and then, as the lights go out in the windows, and the curtains of 
night drop down and enfold the hills, as the sentinel stars come out 
to glitter in the resplendent dome of heaven, and the Milk Maid's 
Path trails like a great gulf stream through the ''Star isled seas of 
heaven," when the hush of nature is over all, and the winds have 
died to a gentle whisper, go out into the deep solitude, alone, with 
only nature and nature's wondrous God about you, and stand face to 
face with self, and there recall the deeds, the acts, the words of the 
day that has gone out in the darkness of the night that has soothed 
your turbulent mind to serenity, and you will be surprised to find 
that you are ready to reverse the decision of the day, and that this 
court of equity indeed, has weighed the evidence to better purpose, 
and you are willing to make all the reparation possible to those whom, 
but a short time before, you looked on as having injured you. 

At such a time man feels his own littleness; nature is so great; 
the stars look down into his heart ; the solitude has a voice ; the dark- 
ness speaks; that spark of Divine goodness that God has planted in 
every human breast flashes up into a glare of light that shows us 
our weakness, our sins, our follies, and the "Still, small voice" of God 
comes to us saying "What doest thou here?" and we are melted by the 



U R H OUR ALONE 108 

tenderness of His love, and the true manhood asserts itself, and we 
go back to seek repose feeling as if we had seen a vision of angels, 
and talked face to face with God, and we are better prepared for the 
duties of life, or the solemn hour of death. It is good for man to 
be alone for an hour, 

A Weeping World 

"He wept? — the stars of Afric's heaven 

Beheld his bursting tears, 
Even on that spot where fate had given 

The meed of toiling years. 
Oh happiness! how far we flee 
Thine own sweet paths, in search of thee." 

— Mrs. Hemans. 

This is a weeping world. Where is the human being who has 
not wept? It is the universal voice of sorrow, and it comes with 
us into the world, follows us along the journey of life, and leaves us 
not until we stand on the banks of the mystical river that separates 
between the seen and the unseen. 

If we were to say that our time is divided between laughing and 
weeping, and that the eye is either brightened by a smile, or dim- 
med by a tear, we would but state a truth that is old as the history of 
the human race, and will continue to grow older until the last sur- 
vivor of the race stands amid the wreck of nature and the ruin of 
worlds, weeping over the lost and loved, and smiling through tears 
at the prospect of meeting them in a purer world, where, under 
different conditions, the eye will never again be dim, but will light 
up with an eternal smile. 

Permit us to say that we do not undervalue the gayer moments 
of life, when the smile evaporates the tear, and adds a charm to love- 
liness that nothing else can give. At some future time, when we 
are permitted to spend an "Hour Alone," and thought roams fancy 
free, it .may be ours to watch the mantling smile, and note the rippling 
laugh, and draw a lesson from them that may leave us purer in 
thought, braver in heart, better in deed, kinder in action and larger 
in our sympathies. But at this hour, when darkness lends a deeper 
gloom to nature's pall, and silence — in a degree — has fallen on a 
tired world, the thought comes to us to dwell on that side of human 
history that deals with the world's great ocean of tears. 

Did Adam weep with Eve, as standing just outside the gates of 
Paradise they viewed the ruin of a race, the loss of all? Or was the 
feeble wail of infant Cain the first sad cry that set in motion the 
waves of atmosphere that volumed round the virgin world? Was his 
the first rosy cheek to bed a pearly tear, whose orb rolled downward 
freighted with the first sorrow of a sin cursed world? We know not, 



104 OUR HOUR ALONE 

and may never know, what proper answers might, to these, be made. 
But just a little further on when Abel's blood is shed — ^the first red 
drop that stained a virgin earth — and when the mother saw the sad, 
cold face of her dead son, we know the great deep of her maternal 
heart must have been stirred by such a tempest of grief that it was 
broken up, and rising in a rushing tide, broke every barrier through, 
rolled from her eyes, dropped on the clay his blood had dyed, and 
vainly strove to wash out the first great crime that man had done 
against his fellow man. 

Abraham wept over the grave where rested the form of his be- 
loved Sarah. Joseph sought a place in which to weep over the brother 
whom he loved. Esau found no place for repentance, though he 
sought it earnestly with tears. 

But come and stand beside the Nile whose waters flowed by the 
first great civilization of a race, where stand the sphinxes, and the 
pyramids, silent, grand, impenetrable, mute monuments of power and 
skill that tell of wealth and poverty, of king and slave. Count if you 
can the tears that fell from captive eyes, while those silent sentinels 
of the centuries were being built. But hark! What means this 
strange and gathering swell of sound that upward rolls along that 
fertile valley, and spreads out to the farthest stretch of the empire 
of the proud Pharaohs? It is the universal wail of sorrow that is 
welling up from the hearts of a people stricken and smitten. For 
the angel of Death had rode on the blast, and the first born in every 
Egyptian home was lying in the slumber of the dead. Listen to the 
children of the captive tribes, as they hang their harps on the wil- 
lows, and weep for the days that are gone. Hark to the voice of the 
King, as he went up, weeping as he went and crying, "O my son 
Absalom! Absalom, my son, my son!" Hear ye not the "voice 
of Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted 
because they are not?" 

Then let your thought take in the storms, the floods, the 
pestilences, the fires, the earthquakes, the wars, the persecutions of 
all the world's ages, and how many have wept over their accumula- 
tions of sorrow? Realize, if you can, the tears that have flowed for 
these things, and then realize, if you can, that but a moiety of all 
earth's sorrows have been thus caused, and you can perhaps begin to 
comprehend that rill has run to rivulet, rivulet to stream, stream to 
river and river to a vast ocean filled and kept full with a ceaseless 
tide of human tears. 

But do we stand to shiver on a bridge of sighs, and mourn that 
man may weep ? No, no ; forever no. How many poor, crushed 
hearts would break, did not their sorrows find relief in tears? Nor 
can we but rejoice that Jesus wept over the city of Jerusalem, and 



OUR HOUR ALONE 106 

that His tears mingled with those of Mary and Martha, at the grave 
of Lazarus. These drops of sympathy that flowed down the cheeks 
of "Him who spake as never man spake," are the evidences of His 
humanity, as His matchless miracles were of His divinity. Let us 
devoutly thank God that man has the power to weep. That the 
blessing of tears meets us on the threshold of existence, and goes 
with us through all the scenes of life, and never forsakes us until 
we are on the bed of death. The dying never weep. While our poor 
hearts are wrung, and our tears fall as rain, their eyes undimmed and 
bright, look over the narrow vale that separates the great mysteries 
of the present from the greater that lie beyond, and thus they leave 
us. And "w^e sincerely pity the one whose hand has never brushed 
away a tear from their own eyes. 

How could we sit beside the little crib and count the slow declin- 
ing pulse, and watch the little breath come thick and short, could 
we not shed a tear? How could we clasp — for the last time — those 
wrinkled hands that guided us in youth, and fail to weep? How 
could the husband see the wife, adored, pass out to the beyond, with 
eyes as dry as summer fallow? Or wife look on a dying husband's 
face and never shed a tear? Could brother and sister speak the last 
adieu without a flow of tears to quench such fiery grief? What were 
the earth without its showers to hang in crystal orb on leaf and 
spray, on flower and blade of grass? And what were man without 
a fount of tears to rise and overflow at his or other's woes? 

Yes, we are glad that man can weep, and misery find tears. They 
are a part of our earthly inheritance. They will follow us until we 
are about to cross the mystic river, but they will leave us there, never 
to come again, for on the other side no tears are shed. He who ex- 
pects to go through life with dry eyes will never lift a sorrow from 
a human heart, nor help a fellow in distress. But while weeping may 
endure for a night, joy cometh in the morning of the resurrection. 

"He wept that we might weep, 

Each sin demands a tear: 
In heaven alone no sin is found. 

And there's no weeping there." 

The Greatest Sorrow 

A few days ago we were listening to a very worthy gentleman 
who was conducting a meeting, and we noticed that he said that 
"sorrow occasioned by the death of our friends is, of course, the 
greatest of earthly sorrows." The proposition seemed strange to 
us, and it set us to thinking, and the result is that we cannot endorse 
the statement, because we do not believe it to be correct. If the 
statement was that this sorrow is the most universal, it would be 



106 OUR HOUR ALONE 

true. For ever since sin made man mortal, and the fiat went forth, 
"dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return," man has been going 
to his long home, and the mourners have been going about the streets. 
True it is of man that: 

"The shadow sits and waits for him." 

No one can doubt for a single moment that the statement of the 
poet is true, as a general rule : 

"There is no flock, however watched and tended, 

But o"ne dead lamb is there; 
There is no household, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair." 

There can be no doubt but the sorrow for the dead is the most 
universal. All other sorrows some of us may escape, but this one 
is inevitable, and cannot be avoided. Nor do we presume to say it 
is not a great sorrow. Of all the ties that bind us here on earth, that 
of kindship is the strongest, and the hardest to break. "When death 
comes to sever it, the great fount of human feeling is stirred to its 
profoundest depths, and we feel that great burden of grief weighs us 
down. We think we are capable of speaking with some degree of 
authority on this question, for we have not escaped personal ex- 
perience in this direction, and we know : 

"How broke the heart may be with its own wretchedness." 

But we do not for a moment think that we have passed through 
the greatest sorrow that earth can bring to humanity. When we 
stand by the bier of a departed dear one, if their life has been of 
that character calculated to bring a feeling of pride to our conscious- 
ness, we may be cast down by sorrow, but we do not "sorrow as those 
who have no hope," and as we look into the face that can never again 
light up with the smile of recognition, we can smile through our tears 
when we reflect how much they have left behind of human toil, and 
disappointment, and trial, while we rejoice to know that they are 
safe in Paradise. 

But who of us can not recall incidents in the sphere of our in- 
dividual observation that convince us that there are greater sorrows 
than those occasioned by the mere fact that death has robbed us — 
for a time at least — of a dear friend? 

Are you a parent, and are you mourning over the death of a 
noble son, whose life gave promise that he would be useful and 
honored? Let your tear dimmed eyes look on the misery of another 
parent whose son has broken away from every paternal restraint, 
disregarded every appeal of affection, depised every correction, and 
has become a sot, a wreck, steeped in crime, and lost to every sense 
of shame, and say if you would change places. As you look on the 



OUR HOUR ALONE 107 

calm features of a lovely daughter, called away in the bloom of open- 
ing womanhood, with a reputation for goodness, gentleness, generosity, 
virtue, and all the graces that adorn the feminine character, and 
as you place your hand on the marble brow, and smooth down the 
shining tresses of her hair, and your tears flow as rain, listen to the 
wail of sorrow that comes from the stricken heart of one whose 
daughter has gone astray, and is on the road to swift and sure destruc- 
tion, and answer the question whether you would not rather sor- 
row as you do, than as she does. If you are a widow weeping over 
the new made grave where rests the form of a noble, brave, true, 
loving, devoted, tender husband, turn your attention for a moment 
to this other heart-broken woman, who is shivering in fear as she 
hears the heavy tread, and is greeted by the coarse oath and idiotic 
laugh that tells her that her husband is returning a demon under the 
influence of a spirit that has robbed him of his friends, his money, 
his self respect, his manhood, his honesty, his home, his humanity, 
and that he is a demon without pity, without mercy, without hope, 
and tell me if you cannot rejoice that no such sorrow has fallen to 
your lot. 

Go to yonder prison cell and hear the bitter cry wrung from the 
agonizing hearts of a father and mother who are holding the last 
interview with one whose crimes have richly merited the ignominious 
death that he is sentenced to, but whose innocent child prattle was 
once the music in their home, and you will be convinced that there 
are sorrows in this life that are not for a moment to be compared 
to that great but not hopeless grief that comes to us in the hour of 
our bereavement. 

Are we thankful that we have escaped the greater sorrow? Are 
we so living as to bring no reproach on our friends? Are we a child, 
and do we make a resolution that our conduct shall be such that the 
gray hairs of parents will not be brought in sorrow to the grave on 
our account? Are we a son just beginning to feel a little irritation 
at what seems to us overmuch solicitude on the part of our parents, 
and will we resolve that never shall conduct of ours bring the blush 
of shame to their cheeks? Are we a daughter, and will we be 
admonished to keep ourselves pure, and virtuous, and unstained by 
evil associates? If we are, then will the short time that we have 
spent in touching on this subject be profitably spent, and we will 
not regret that in the good providence of God we have been permitted 
to spend an Hour Alone. 

Editorial Responsibility 

On an average our ministers preach to one hundred and fifty 
people, from Sunday to Sunday. "We often talk of what a great 



108 OUR HOUR ALONE 

responsibility rests on these men who are commissioned to preach the 
gospel — glad news to men — and to admonish, reprove, rebuke, warn. 
And the true and faithful minister goes into his pulpit with the bur- 
den of his charge weighing heavily upon him. One hundred and 
fifty men, women and children are waiting for him to rightly divide 
the word of truth. Three hundred ears are listening to learn some- 
thing that will be made applicable to them as intelligent, responsible 
moral agents who are to give an account, at some future time, for 
how they hear. Is it not natural for these men to say: "Lord, who 
is sufficient for these things?" 

But while this is true of the minister, is it not true, in a larger 
sense, of those who sit at the editorial desk and write out sentiments 
and ideas that must meet the eye, engage the mind, and sink into 
the hearts of a much larger number than listen to any ordinary dis- 
course from the pulpit? It is but a small and insignificant paper 
indeed, if it does not meet the gaze of two thousand men, women 
and children who scan closely its every utterance. 

What, then, must be the responsibility of the one who thus, week 
by week, and year by year, speaks to such a large number? How 
great the responsibility resting on them ! Surely if the minister 
should be an example for his flock, the editor should be as much, 
if not more, to his readers. We boast of our wonderful progress, and 
we boast not idly; but take away our ministers and our newspapers, 
and where would be the achievements that would indicate our onward 
march in the direction of that grand progress that now marks the 
path trodden by the millions of the earth? It takes no prophet to 
predict that such a calamity would turn the wheels of civilization 
backward, and sink our highest types of manhood and womanhood 
into a chaos, a darkness, deeper and more hopeless than any that has 
yet visited the children of men. We sit here at this hour penning 
these lines, conscious that ten thousand ears will hear the sounds of 
these words, and that ten thousand eyes will sparkle as they re&J 
them, to praise, or to condemn. What is our responsibility as we put 
letters together to form words, words to make sentences, and sentences 
to convey ideas to other minds? 

Will this copy of the Banner fall into the hands of some man 
who is in doubt, perplexity and fear? Has he been buffeted by the 
waves, and driven by the winds, and so far lost his course that he is 
ready to say that there is no justice, that truth has fled, and wrong, 
injustice, error, triumphs over all? If it does, let us say to you nay, 
nay, my brother, it is you that is wrong ; justice never dies ; truth is not 
lost, error has not triumphed, and when the storm ceases, and you 
reach the shore, and climb up the steep mountain side until you are 
out of the mists that now obscure your weak vision, you will see 



OUR HOUR ALONE 109 

high above you still the temple where justice is enthroned, where 
truth abides forever, and error is not permitted to approach. 

Comes it to one who has lost the bloom of health and halts in 
feebleness and pain along the arduous journey, almost persuaded that 
never again will the tinge of returning health light up the pallid 
look of death that now is on the face? Let us say to you that there 
is a fountain of youth, there is a perennial spring, there is a foun- 
tain of life, if not in this world then in another and a better; and 
that you will yet stand among your fellows, to wonder how you be- 
came disentangled from this worn tegument of the body, and how you 
became imbued with the principle of life that fails not. But rest 
assured that this is no idle promise, no fabled story, for there is not 
an atom of created matter that can be entirely destroyed. 

"Why should this worthless tegument endure, 

If its undying guest be lost forever? 
O let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 

In living virtue; that, when both must sever. 
Although corruption may our frame consume, 

Th' immortal spirit in the skies may bloom." 

Does it come to some poor fallen one, whose feet have touched 
the deepest mire and filthiest dirt of earth, and dost thou fear that 
mercy is not thine? Cheer up, dear soul, cheer up, for He whose 
weary feet trod all the ways of human sorrow, trial and temptation, 
has sounded every depth, knows all your sins, and knowing pities 
you, and reaches out the helping hand, and bids you come — not when 
you feel no need — not when you need no help — but now — and here, 
just as you are. He came to seek and save the lost, and sin's black 
ruin reaches not to where His healing cannot come. 

Comes this before the eye of one who doubts, and fears, and is 
afraid that faith so weak can never move the mountains from the 
road? Then rest secure, for doubt will be dissolved, and fears be 
chased away, faith that is too weak to show a spark will kindle to 
a glorious flame whose glow will light a path wherein a thousand 
angels stand to guard the way your timid feet will tread. And what 
will be the end? Have all these words, born of this Hour Alone, 
spirits that can not die? Will they beget some thought in other 
human souls, and thus go on and multiply and live, when this paper 
is eaten by moth, this pen has ceased to write, this hand has lost 
its nerve and power, this brain become as senseless as the clod, and 
this pervading spirit long has flown? If such should be the case, 
God grant that only such as be for good may live, and if an error 
we have coined, may it go down to death — nay more — may it be buried 
a thousand fathoms deep in the oblivion of a Heavenly Father's love, 
while every line for good may live to bless a million yet unborn. 



110 OUR HOUR ALONE 

A Quartet of Words 

Right, Wrong ! Truth ; Error ! These words form two sets of 
antitheses. It would pay all — and more especially the young — to care- 
fully study these words. They are worthy of more thought than can 
possibly be bestowed upon them in one Hour Alone. 

Right! What a brave, bold, honest, straightforward, lovely old 
Anglo-Saxon word it is. How it shines out among commonplace words 
like "apples of gold in pictures of silver!" It means straight; cor- 
rect ; in accord with truth and justice ; conformity to law, moral or 
divine ; adherence to duty ; freedom from guilt or error ; integrity ; 
freedom from error or falsehood ; most direct. 

"He can't be wrong whose life is in the right." 

— Pope. 

What a grand motto this word would make. Suppose it was thor- 
oughly understood ; suppose it was lived up to strictly. Where would 
be the cheat, where the fraud, where the gambler, where the prize 
fighter, where the oppressor? What would become of the pauper, 
the poor house, the reform school, the calaboose, the jail, the prison, 
the penitentiary? 

What would become of the lawyers, the courts, and all that vast 
system of legalized plunder that rob a deluded people? 

Where would be the distillery, the wholesale liquor house, the low 
down, mean, degrading, brutalizing, soul destroying, contemptible, 
despicable saloons? Where would be the wrong, the injustice, the 
oppression that have wrung tears and bitter cries from millions of 
human beings? Where would be war with its bloody contests, its 
ghastly wounds, its maimed and shattered devotees, its cruel devasta- 
tions, its fearful wastes, its utter desolations? Would not all these 
disappear if Right were the motto of every one on the earth, and all 
squared their lives by it? 

But look at this word "Wrong." It suggests to us all that is 
low, cunning, mean, vulgar and outrageous. It means crooked; 
twisted ; not morally right ; not just or equitable ; not true ; erroneous ; 
to do wrong ; to injure ; to do injustice. 

It is like a great blotch in a beautiful picture; it is like a great 
dark cloud that shuts out the radiance, the light, the heat of the sun. 
Suppose we take it for a motto? Suppose every one acted up to the 
full meaning of the word? Where would liberty be? Where justice? 
Where the home for the friendless? Where the hospitals, the schools, 
the churches, the missionaries, the philanthropists of the world ? Where 
would be the home with its sacred ties, its blessed associations, its 
disinterested loves, its pure joys, its blessed hopes? Where would be 



OUR HOUR ALONE 111 

the wise and just systems of human government? Where the security 
to property, to life? Where would be integrity, intelligence, man- 
hood, religion? They would all be lost in chaos and ruin. 

Truth! Another of those grand words that loom up as land- 
marks in a desert. It means fact; constancy; exactness; honesty; 
virtue; probity; purity; veracity; real fact; just principle. A true 
man! A true woman! How much these terms imply. An honest 
man ! Forever away with the idea that 

"An honest God is the noblest work of man." 

It would set back the hands on the dial-plate of civilization. It would 
stop human progress ; it would paralyze human enterprise. No, no ; it 
will not do. Let us hold fast to that other, that better, that grander 
idea 

"An honest man is the noblest work of God." 

Have you ever thought how near akin the words Truth and God 
are? Is there a wonder here? No, for God is the author of truth, 
God is truth. 

But here again is the antithesis. Error. Another mean, impu- 
dent bastard, that comes to deceive. It means a wandering from truth ; 
a mistake in judgment; misapprehension; fallacy; blunder; a fault; 
transgression. / 

It means all that stands in opposition to truth. It has much to 
answer for. It has fastened clogs on the limbs of mankind ; it has 
caused oceans of red blood to flow ; it has kindled the fagots that 
blazed about the writhing forms of the world's martyrs; it has cre- 
mated the living widow with the dead husband; it has tortured the 
victims of false systems with all that cruelty could invent; it has 
stood in the pathway of human progress to retard and turn it back- 
ward ; it has come between man and truth, and has shut out its bright- 
ness and glory. Error is a monster that never appears in his hideous 
deformity, or else man would flee from it. It comes in pleasing dis- 
guise, with a lie in its right hand, with hatred in its heart. 

Right, Wrong! Truth, Error! 

These words never change. There is nothing half way about 
them. Right is not partly wrong. Wrong is not partly right. There 
is no blending of the terms. No coalescing here. Right is right. 
Wrong is wrong. Both have always been so. They are like the won- 
derful lines in geometry that always approach yet never meet. It is 
the vain attempt of man to blend them together that destroys human 
happiness. It will be the entire separation of them that will con- 
stitute heaven. 



112 OUR HOUR ALONE 

Truth is always truth. It is immutable. Nothing can change it. 
Humanly speaking, God cannot change it, for it is His chief attribute. 
Truth is clear cut. It is finished. It is complete. Nothing can be 
added to it. Nothing can be taken from it. 

Error is always error. It borrows no virtue from truth. It stands 
opposite to truth and keeps repeating, you lie, you lie! Error de- 
ceives. It is cruel. It is pitiless. It lures only to destroy. 

Right, Wrong, Truth, Error! This quartette is engaged in a 
contest, a conflict. They will not all continue to exist. Right and 
Truth must win, or else the great universal plan is a failure. Wrong 
and Error must die, or future bliss is but a fable. 

But are we personally interested in these words? Most certainly 
we are. We are free moral agents, and we can choose Right and 
Truth, or we can choose Wrong and Error. We are capable of under- 
standing them. Nor can we ignore the matter. We who live in 
Yates City, read The Banner and peruse this Hour Alone, must make 
our individual choice. We may make a mistake, but we will choose. 
Right and Truth will lead us onward and upward. Wrong and Error 
will drag us downward. They are the rock on which souls are 
wrecked and lost. Truth cannot be destroyed, and Right cannot die. 
Both will remain forever. 

If these random thoughts lead some hesitating, wavering one to 
choose for Right and Truth, then will we lay aside our pen well 
satisfied, and close with this grand thought of the poet: 

"Truth crushed to earth will rise again, 
The eternal years of God are her's; 

But error, wounded, writhes in pain. 
And dies amid her worshipers." 

The Passing Months 

We are reminded that October is here, cheerful, bright, exhilarat- 
ing October, with its soft winds, clear skies and smoky horizons. 
January and February have passed, with their frosts and snows, their 
ice and intense cold. March has gone by with its blustering winds 
and bleak, cheerless storms. April, false, fickle, changeable, showery 
April, has gone into the dim vista of the past, and has again proved its 
right to the title of the inconstant month. 

May has again shown us the resurrection of a dead world, and 
we have seen the blossoms merging to full bloom, and the tender 
shoots springing up, and the expanding leaves unfolding in the glad 
sunshine, gathering up the dew drops and the rainfall and feeding on 
them, while they absorbed the oxygen from the air, and circulated it 
to twig and branch and trunk and root, thus reaching out to a wider 



OUR HOUR ALONE 113 

stretch of branch, a sturdier growth of trunk, a stronger grip of root, 
so that it tosses in storm and is bent but not broken, and is thereby 
only made the stronger for the next struggle with the giant forces of 
nature, when the disturbed elements go out to level the proudest 
monuments of man's skill, and toy with the giants of the forest. 

June has gone, June in her wondrous beauty, with her wealth of 
flowers making beautiful the glad gardens of God, and pushing the 
berries to mellow ripeness, and shooting up the blades of grass that 
grow, no man knows how, and brings out the bearded grain with its 
abundant promise of a bountiful harvest; June with its long, clear, 
bright soulful days, when the sun loves to linger over the shimmering 
landscapes that lie in radiant beauty as under the revivifying touch 
of God. June, with her clear skies and radiant nights, in which the 
fireflies shimmer over the velvet grass and sparkle like a thousand tiny 
lamps, that are ever shifting and moving as the magic colors of the 
kaleidoscope, while the stars twinkle in the cerulean blue, and the 
constellations move in the horoscope, with that sublime and silent 
majesty that has marked the processions of suns, and planets, and 
moons, and constellations, ever since the morning stars awoke the 
first sweet notes in the jubilant song of creation. 

July has gone with its squibs, its burning powder, its noises, its 
patriotism, dear to every American heart, as they are trying to weak 
nerves and aged systems. July, with its shooting ears of corn, its 
wains of succulent hay, its shocks of golden grain, its clatter of the 
mower and the reaper, its hum of the thresher, its scorching days 
and sultry nights, in which lightnings break from a clear sky, and 
light up with a weird distinctness the distant horizon. 

August is not, for she has filled her hesitating mission, a mission 
that we scarcely understand, but in which vegetation seems on the 
stand still, undecided whether to go forward or backward, and com- 
promises by gaining — somehow — a fuller and grander maturity. 

September has laid its gentle touch of decay on the beauty of the 
glad summer-time, and the sumachs begin to show their scarlet 
leaves, and the earlier decaying leaves to fall, hesitatingly, reluctantly, 
regretfully as it were, and with a music that is a very sadness in its 
solemnity. The fruits have matured, and the close student of nature 
realizes that the subtle forces that produce growth are failing in 
energy, as if spent with their efforts, and are about to go back to that 
season of repose that is necessary in order that seasons may not 
cease. 

And so here is October, laying its crimson touch on the symmetri- 
cal maples, and causing them to glow, a perfect carnation, as they 
fling back from their beauteous branches the glories of these October 
sunsets. The tenderer flowers are already dead, reminding us of the 



114 OUR HOUR ALONE 

children who lay down the burden of their little lives almost before 
they have begun, and go out from the chill, the frosts and the cruel 
cold earth, into the warmth and wealth of heaven. October has 
come to show us that nothing on earth is too lovely, too beautiful, too 
precious for decay. The keener frosts are coming that will not only 
nip vegetation, but will kill it. The leaves will disengage themselves — 
mysterious process — and fall, one by one, until falling will be but to 
join the majority. The grasses will wither; the crickets will cease 
their merry fiddling ; the song birds will make vocal the russet groves, 
with their farewell songs, as they congregate to seek a less rigorous 
clime ; the squirrel is busy cramming his narrow dormitory with the 
wealth of nuts that nature has placed in his reach; the timid mouse 
has sought out a spot where it is laboring to make a winter home, all 
unconscious of the cruel plowshare that is to rudely invade it and set 
her adrift in the bleak November blast, homeless and shelterless. 

October is here to show us that nothing is sacred from the touch 
of decay. October is here to teach us that the fairest hope of the 
glad summer is blasted by the rude touch of time that commands 
everything to decay. October is here to put nature into her transient 
sleep. Each month has had its share, its own peculiar part in the great 
economy of nature, in the wise plan of an unerring God. But the 
vegetable world is not alone in these great and mysterious changes. 
During all these months, change has invaded the domain of our lives, 
a change that teaches us that man is but the creature of an hour. If 
we have withdrawn ourselves from the busy throng, and gone into 
the solitude to spend an Hour Alone, we surely have heard the voice of 
grief as it welled up from the bruised and broken heart of sorrow, that 
hopeless wail and bitter cry that is wrung from the desolate heart as 
we stand by the open graves of those who are called in the gloom of 
January and February, the stormy days of March, the changing moods 
of April, the quiet hours of May, the budding beauties of June, the 
busy times of July, the heats of August, the slight changeful Septem- 
ber, or the scarlet month of October, to lay aside the busy cares of 
life and sink into the cold, calm, voiceless repose of the dead, as if to 
show us that while: 

"Leaves have their time to fall, 

And flowers to whither at the north wind's breath, 
And stars to set — but all. 

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!" 

But to the christian's ear this wail of sorrow changes into a glad 
paen of rejoicing, for he looks beyond the dark, silent, cheerless, cold 
and forbidding winter of death, and sees the resurrection of the 
eternal spring, when these dead trees of hope will awake to newness 
of life, and bask in the beauties of a never ending summer. Man 



OUR HOUR ALONE 116 

stands in the midst of the gloom and desolation, and seeming death 
of nature's winter, but he knows that spring will come, and apparent 
death spring into the beauty of life. The christian stands in the 
presence of death, and he knows that the eternal spring will come, 
and these apparently dead bodies will come forth to bask in the 
sunlight of an eternal summer. 

Doubt and Belief 

Just a doubt ; only that, and yet how it perplexes, how it annoys, 
how it takes away our ease, puts us on the mental rack, destroys 
happiness, mars pleasure, kills joy, and murders sleep. If it be taken 
in a literal sense, that writer who hatched from a morbid brain "He 
who doubts is damned," was a Universalist, but a Universalist whose 
doctrines consigned the teeming millions of the world to a hopeless 
doom ; for who of the countless throng whose dust now mingles with 
its kindred mold, and makes the universe a cemetery vast as earth's 
domain, has lived or died without a doubt? Or lives there now one 
solitary soul, so strong in nerve and limb, so filled with knowledge rare, 
so fortified in understanding all the deep and curious intricacies of 
life, with faith so full and perfect — a being so complete in all that 
marks the line that separates the higher and the lower orders of life — 
that point where instinct finds a barrier too high for it to scale, and 
where reason, that wondrous germ that grows, buds, blossoms, and 
bears such fruit as proves the root divine, begins that wondrous ex- 
pansion that shall never know an end, a being in whose mind no 
sense of doubt has ever come? 

A being such as this would be a god, not man; would be divine, 
not human; would need no guiding hand to steer his steps aright. 
That were a happy state; 'twould be an Eden found, for doubt was 
devil born when Eden's gates were closed, and sword of flame began 
its turning every way to guard the tree of life, when man plucked the 
fruit from the forbidden bough, and by the act acquired the power to 
see the evil and the good — a power that cursed his life, as power is 
prone to do the life of man. 

Then doubt is but a heritage to man — a universal legacy that 
came — as legacies do come — through death. Before the fall faith was 
a bird of plumage rare, so balanced in the wing, so poised in flight, so 
fit for lofty soaring, that the expanse of blue was scaled on upward 
wing, and circling near the throne, basked in the ray divine. But 
disobedience clipped the pinion feathers short, weighted the feet with 
clogs of doubt, and thus forbade a rise beyond the fogs of earth, and 
crippled all its powers. 



116 OUR HOUR ALONE 

And what are we? Heirs of this brood of doubts. The faith we 
have is but an embryo. We pray that it may grow so strong, and 
broad, and deep, that doubt may be debarred. But the ideal never is 
attained, and failure always comes. These doubts rise up to vex us 
at our best ; they come in infant years, when reason starts to life ; they 
spoil our childhood sports; they come with an intrusive impudence, to 
mar the pleasures of our youth ; they gather in a hideous troop about 
the plans that make our maturer years, fill us with the perplexities 
that give us naught of rest, and make us timid, hesitating, halting; 
we purpose this or that, but doubt is at our elbow and suggests, "is 
that the best?" We aim to reach some noble end, but like some numb 
paralysis doubt weakens all our powers, halts our quick pace, and 
purpose is defeated. 

A faith without a doubt would show a road so plain and traveled 
that none could err in seeking it; doubt places us in a circle's center, 
with roads so multiform and intricate that reason fails to tell us which 
is right, and oft we wander round the maze till life is near the end, 
and make no progress. Take doubt out of these lives and what an 
easy task to live. 

Is life all hopeless, then? No. Belief is here, a factor, too, as 
potent, as universal, as insistent as doubt. Belief is of an origin de- 
vine; it must immortal be; doubt sprang from earth, and with the 
earth will be destroyed ; belief, heaven born, will live when doubt is 
dead. Doubt can go with us down the path of life, and stand beside 
us in that dark vale where every life path leads. But when we hear 
the swish of waves that wash the shores of both time and eternity, 
and hear the dip of the pale boatman's oars — as all must hear — and 
as we see the dim, obscure light of our belief shine out across the cold 
and surging tide, reaching the farther shore, and rays that burnish 
the peaks of the eternal world, scattering the gloom, then will we 
look around to find that doubt — our constant attendant hitherto — has 
vanished from our sight forever. 

The more of faith and less of doubt, the better are our lives. 
Doubt mars, but can't destroy. Belief in God is an immortal thing 
that doubt can never kill. So is our strong belief in every human 
good. That virtue is a nobler thing than vice most easily is seen; 
that virtue will live when vice is dead is sure. Doubt whispers, "all 
the good in man is dead." Belief arises in her indignation just and 
stamps the base assertion as "a lie." The bird of faith will grow her 
pinion feathers yet, and poise her flight again to circle near the 
throne. We walk through gloom, with dim, uncertain light to guide 
the way, and doubt stands ready to deride and scoff, but duty points a 
rugged, steep and thorny road, with many a weary cross, but at the 
end no shadow of a doubt, but in its stead a glorious crown of life. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 117 

The Old Homes 

Some seasons are calculated to turn the thoughts to the subject of 
home. Long, tiresome and expensive journeys are made in order that 
those long separated may meet again under the roof of the old home 
that sheltered them in infancy, secured for them a retreat from child- 
hood's sorrows — for childhood has its griefs, not less real, less hard 
to bear because they are small, and trivial, and unimportant to those 
who are older — and the disappointments of youth, those bitter cups 
that are held to the lips often because of sin and folly that might 
have been avoided if we had been more considerate, or more obedient, 
or less headstrong and impetuous. 

How much of shame has been hidden from the cold, calculating, 
critical, unpitying eye of the world, in the blessed seclusion of these 
dear old homes, where the father's heart yearned over the mistakes 
of the children, and was as ready to *'see them afar off" as was the 
father of the returning prodigal whom Jesus uses to bring down to 
man's comprehension the love of the Heavenly Father for His erring 
ones who have wandered so far in the paths of sin, and been so near 
starving, while in His house was "bread enough and to spare?" 

And how has the mother heart wrestled with God beneath the 
shelter of this roof, that her children might have wisdom, and strength, 
and courage, and help, so that they might not yield to the seductive 
blandishments that temptations show to them, hiding the thorn in the 
petals of a flower so beautiful that innocent youth fails to detect its 
presence, though scarce a person of mature years but can see ugly 
scars where these thorns have penetrated the palms in which they 
were too eagerly and too tightly grasped. No human being will ever, 
on earth, be able to measure or fathom the love of God. The length 
and the breadth, and the height and the depth of it passeth human 
comprehension. 

Only a little below this incomprehensible love of God for man, is 
the love of the mother for her child. It may not — it cannot — stand 
equal to God's love, but it is large enough to be beyond man's measure- 
ment, and lasting enough to have no other comparison but eternity. 
How has that dear heart yearned over us in the home ! How have 
those hands toiled for our comfort ! How has she laughed in our joy ! 
How has she wept in our sorrow ! How has her pride been touched 
by our success ! How has she clung to us when all the world besides 
has said we were a failure ! It has been said that nothing on earth is 
so pure as the love of a little child. It is certain that nothing is so 
strong, so lasting, so full of faith, so disinterested, so self-sacrificing 
as the love of a mother. If every other evidence of purity and good- 
ness were blotted from the earth, and no revelation had come to tell 



118 OUR HOUR ALONE 

us of an infinite purity and goodness, this mother love would be 
sufficient to convince us that somewhere there must be a central fire 
where this vestal flame was kindled, and that somewhere there must be 
a great lamp where the lamp of her love has been lighted. 

Some of us visit these homes in gladness. Some of us have been 
such a short time out of them that we scarcely appreciate the privilege 
of going back. Some of us have been out of them so long that we 
speculate as we speed toward them, in regard to how they will look 
to us, and how we will be touched in feeling by the return. Some of 
us have no old home to which we may go back. Time has laid his 
vandal hand on these sacred altars where the worship of our young 
hearts was poured out, and they have crumbled at his touch. Death 
has come and closed the activities of the aged father, and he has 
turned out of the busy path of life. He has touched the mother, and 
she has faded from our sight, and gone from our embrace. Has her 
love been quenched in the cold waters of the swiftly rolling Jordan? 
It cannot be. Such love 

"Was not born to die." 

It has been transferred, but not lost. The brothers and sisters are 
gone — to the grave — or to homes of their own. We may return and 
view, with a sort of melancholy satisfaction, the old familiar scenes; 
we may stand beneath the old roof, and let our gaze wander about 
the four walls ; and as we do so we begin to realize, as we never have 
before, what home really is, what the name really implies. We know 
now, as we have not in the past, that roof, and walls, and pictures, and 
grounds are not home. We love these only as they bring back some 
recollection. We will know that home was where father and mother 
lived, and toiled, and planned, and worked for our happiness ; we will 
see that home was in the sweet blendings of a brother's and a sister's 
devotions; we will see that home is where little offerings of our 
separate loves were carried to a common altar and laid down as a 
blessed sacrifice whose incense went up toward heaven. 

For a time we may stand and gaze on the shadow from which we 
know the substance has been taken, and then turn our steps to the 
silent city of the dead, and tears — blessed tears — sacred drops of 
heaven born sorrow — will fall upon the mounds where sleep our loved 
and vanished, hidden from our sight for a time — and happy are we if 
at that moment no vain regrets for what we might have done to make 
their lives more bright come to us. 

And happy, too, are we, if standing thus, with our dim earthly 
sight made dimmer by these tears — the eye of faith looks up and sees 
the glorious heavenly home — the mansions in the skies — and we can 
say, not doubting in the least, we all will meet again in the home of 



OUR HOUR ALONE 119 

the blessed, where the eternal morning breaks, where families reunite 
— not to part as they do here — but to go out no more forever. 

Our hour is past. New duties come with their demands. If in 
perusing these poor random thoughts, some reader's thoughts are 
lifted up to higher, nobler things, or some long slumbering recollection 
is awakened to bring back a happy scene, or if some youth, still 
lingering on the threshold of a happy home, be led to put a higher 
value on its joys, then are we content to lay aside the pen and say 
good night. 

Leah and Elizabeth Harriss 

'They grew in beauty, side by side, 
They filled one home with glee; — 
Their graves are severed far and wide, 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 

"The same fond mother bent at night 

O'er each fair sleeping brow; 
She had each folded flower in sight; — 

Where are those dreamers now?" 

The music of these sadly beautiful and touching lines from one 
of Mrs. Felicia Dorothea Hemans' exquisite little poems, has been 
sounding in our ears since Sunday. That day two sweet little girls 
came home with Mettie from church. They have taken a great liking 
to her — the cause, no doubt, being that she gives them a full measure 
of affection in return. It is wonderful how observant children are — ■ 
those two are twins, and just past six — of the love bestowed upon them. 
There is only one way to the heart of a child, and that is through the 
avenue of love; there is only one cord that binds children to grown 
people, and that is the cord of affection. 

It was soon evident that these children had brought a ray of 
sunshine along with them. They had none of the shyness of children 
who are strangers to the house, for they had been here before. It was 
not surprising that in a short time they were engaged in play with 
the cheerful vivacity characteristic of healthy children of their age, 
and were enjoying themselves immensely; not in a boisterous way, but 
in a way perfectly natural for their age — an age that is full of con- 
tortions and twists and wiggles. 

They had come up from their home in Canton, Thanksgiving day, 
with their grand-mother, to visit relatives in this quiet little town, 
and attended the library festival, where they made a brave attempt to 
keep awake — an attempt that was almost an entire failure — for it was 
evident that the dust man had found them and was sifting sand into 
their blinking peepers, and they belonged to the company of "Winky, 
Blinky & Nod." But Sunday there was no dust man, and no such firm 



120 OUR HOUR ALONE 

as Winky, Blinky & Nod. They found two canes, — very good substi- 
tutes for horses, in a pinch — and there was a box of hazel nuts in a 
cute little closet, and a dish of crackers in a low cupboard, and a 
plate with some candy left over from Thursday — shall we not say 
Providentially — and Mettie had given permission for them to help 
themselves, the only terms being that they were not to soil their 
dresses. It has always seemed an outrage, to me, that when a child is 
given permission to do that which will make it perfectly happy, there 
must be coupled with it this admonition about soiling the dress. It is 
a dead fly in their ointment, a tree in the garden of pleasure bearing 
forbidden fruit, and — well. Eve fell before such temptation. 

But the children had a nice time. They remembered a tiny little 
glass tumbler, and a dainty little mug that were theirs by right of dis- 
covery — a right that is acknowledged by the Pope and all other 
civilized potentates, — and they got them to drink out of at the table. 
Other little hands had handled these, other little lips had touched them, 
hands that are folded, lips that are silent, and now the snow lies white 
on their — 

"But I rhyme for smiles, and not for tears." 

After dinner they opened the organ and one played and both 
sang for us — sang the first verse of that grand National hymn, 
"America," and did real well, too, and then essayed a stanza of "Let 
a Little Sunshine In," — and wasn't the sunshine visible on the two 
cherub faces, and didn't it make bright the room, and shine into dark 
corners of our heart as it would not have shined but for them, and 
didn't we get a glimpse of some cobwebs that had gathered there with- 
out our knowledge? We are so glad that God don't send people full 
grown into this world. We are so glad that they come as little sun- 
shines, to brighten the lives of those burdened with cares, and toils and 
sorrows. 

It was while they were thus busy that the music of the lines at 
the head of this article came to us, and it has been with us since. We 
went back a few years — only a few — and we saw the mother of these 
two girls, then a fine, healthy, strong, intelligent young lady, the 
daughter of a farmer, the eldest of three sisters, all of whom are with 
that vast majority who, in all the ages, have fallen out of the journey 
of life and are resting. 

She was a pupil at Normal, and there met a noble young man, 
and between them sprung up an attachment that ended as usual. Both 
were teachers in our schools here in Yates City, and while so employed, 
were married. Afterward they went to Oregon, 111, and to them came 
three children, the eldest a girl, and these twins later. The mother's 
health failed, the situation was given up, and a location sought in 



OUR HOUR ALONE 121 

Colorado, in the hope that she might recover. She lingered for a 
time, but faded, as the 

"Flowers fade out in the chill autumn air." 

and the end came, Oh ! so suddenly and with such a crushing weight 
of sorrow, to him who had so hoped against hope, and who now found 
himself alone with these helpless children. 

In the meantime her next younger sister died, and last spring 
the other sister joined them in the better land, and so the grand- 
mother has taken those two little ones to fill a vacant place in her 
heart, Elizabeth and Leah Harriss, the one light haired and blue 
eyed, the other dark haired and dark eyed, and both full of life and 
innocent glee. 

We could not resist the train of thought that came to us unbidden, 
and brought these past events, and we were sore of heart as we saw 
the mother bending over these little sleepers in their far western 
home, and thought of how she must have speculated on the future of 
those dear ones when deprived of her care. 

There are so many things we do not understand; God never 
meant we should; 'tis well if faith has grown so strong a plant that 
we can look beyond the present, with its sorrows, griefs and tears, up 
to the realm where He reigns, beyond the reach of accident or change, 
guiding with wisdom deep, wide and sublime, the vast affairs of this 
and other worlds. Happy, if doubt — said to be devil born — be so kept 
down, and under such control, that we can say, when darkness closes 
round, and all the way appears hedged up, and far beyond our scale, 
that we are 

"Only waiting 'till the shadows are a little longer grown." 

and can realize that 

"We shall know as we are known." 

for then the realm of doubt being past, and mystery no more, we may 
look back and wonder that a veil so thin hid from our vision dim those 
purposes and plans that, in our fuller knowledge, seem so wise. 

What may be yet in store for these dear little girls it is not ours 
to know. It has been wisely said, ' ' God from our vision hides the book 
of fate." This very fact is not the least of all the mercies God has 
given to man. They are in the care of one, who once a child, grew 
up to man's estate, then took such little children in His arms and 
blessed, and said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and 
forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven," and in His 



122 OUR HOUR ALONE 

care may we not trust them. What if partings come ? What if graves 
be separated? 

"And parted thus they rest, who played 

Beneath the same green tree; 
Whose voices mingled as they prayed 

Around one parent knee! 
"They that with smiles lit up the hall. 

And cheered with song the hearth, — 
Alas! for love if thou wert all. 

And nought beyond, O earth." 

You Can't Fool With a Fact 
Many of our readers will remember a sturdy Scotchman who re- 
sided in Elmwood a few years ago. He has gone to his reward, having 
died a year or two since. He was a remarkable man in many respects, 
was possessed of strong common sense, was quick to discern the right, 
and vigorous in denunciation of wrong. His was the organization of 
the true reformer, and he hated oppression with the same intensity 
with which he loved humanity. We always had a profound respect 
for him as a man, and some of his quaint aphorisms come back to us 
now and then with much force. On one occasion we heard him make 
an address during a political campaign, and in the course of his 
remarks he made use of this vigorous language: "Gentlemen, you 
can't fool with a fact," Had this sentence been uttered by a Lincoln, 
a Garfield, an IngersoU or a Beecher, it would have been heralded 
from one end of the earth to the other. It matters not to us that it 
comes from an unpretentious source ; it is true, and Truth never grows 
old, never dies. Truth is immortal; it has existed from eternity, and 
it will exist to eternity. Mr. Mathewson is dead ; in time he will be 
forgotten ; but the sentence that he uttered in that humble speech fell 
into the hearts of the children of men, and it wUl not be forgotten. 
You may fool with error, with falsehood, with deception, for they are 
evanescent, and soon become obsolete, forgotten, dead. But a fact — 
look at it. It stands out, clear cut, bold, strong, undisguised, un- 
covered, brave and fearless, the noblest thing in all the universe of 
God. It is just what it claims to be ; you can trust it ; you can put 
your confidence in it ; it will not deceive you ; it is true — Truth itself. 
This sentence is a talisman of power to the noble, the good, the virtu- 
ous, the benevolent. It shines out clear, bright, lambent — like the 
polar star — always to be depended on. If we have lost our bearings 
in life; if dark clouds have enveloped us; if storms have driven us 
far, far from our course ; if wild waves lash themselves around us, and 
our frail bark seems destined to go down in the turbulent waters, all 
we need is to cling fast to fact. It is the strong sheet anchor that 
fastens itself on the solid rock at the bottom of the great deep, far 



OUR HOUR ALONE 128 

below the reach of storms, and that will never drag. It is the gleam 
of Truth 's great lamp in the lighthouse warning us of the danger, and 
enabling us to avoid it. Let us see; this sentence begins with the 
second person, "You." Is this significant? Who is meant by "you?" 
Does it mean ministers, deacons, church members, good men, good 
women, the wise, the just? Yes, it means all these. But it means 
more. It seems to me that I see a boy about to disobey the wise com- 
mand of a loving mother, for the first time ; be careful lad, better not 
do what she has forbidden; "you can't fool with a fact." Here is 
another boy smoking his first cigar, sneaking around to hide it from 
his father ; he is venturing on dangerous and deceiving ground ; boy, 
"you can't fool with a fact." Here is an older one about to sit down 
to his first game of cards; listen, young man, there is a still, small 
voice whispering in your ear, "you can't fool with a fact." Here is a 
youth standing beside the bar of a gilded saloon — or it may be the 
glittering counter of some other gilded net where bait is kept to catch 
souls — he has his hand upon the first, the fatal glass; hark! Is that 
the sound of John Mathewson's voice? Yes, it must be; but it is 
more; it is the voice of your father, your mother, your brother, your 
sisters, all your true friends, all the good men and good women in 
the world; it is the voice of the dead — of the living — of angels — of 
God — swelling up in a resonant diapason that you may not disregard, 
and the burden of the music is, "you can't fool with a fact." Here 
is a man slipping along in the darkness; he is lean, gaunt, haggard, 
hungry ; he has crawled out of a hut where he has left a wan, starving 
woman shivering in a fireless room, destitute of furniture, with five 
ragged, skeleton children crying about her; he is despairing, hopeless, 
vicious ; he has lost his self respect, manhood, energy — all that makes 
man man — almost; he has determined to steal — not to save his own 
miserable and wretched life — no, for he values it not — but for them, 
they who depend on him ; he is not yet by overt act a criminal ; what 
sound is that creeping up into his attenuated ears? Ah, it is the voice 
of everything outside the region of lost souls, and swells up, nearer, 
clearer and sweeter ; it arrests his attention, he listens until he is again 
kneeling at the side of a praying mother, and hears the pleading tones 
of a loving father saying, "my son, you can't fool with a fact," and he 
is saved. The scene changes; I see a young and beautiful girl; she 
has the intelligent look, the neat dress, the dignified bearing that de- 
notes one who has been well raised ; I see the home she has just left ; 
there is the father reading the evening paper, a few silver hairs shining 
among the dark locks that cluster about his brow ; there is a woman — 
no doubt the mother — a trifle stout, a few wrinkles showing about the 
firm mouth, traces of earlier beauty all about her, and that indescrib- 
able something that speaks the accomplished lady; there are three 



124 OUR HOUR ALONE 

sisters, younger, but happy as youth and innocence can be ; there are 
two manly boys turning the leaves of the same magazine, their heads 
closely meeting, and their brown curls intermingling, while seated on 
a crumpled rug on the floor is a child, perhaps a boy, perhaps a girl — 
playing with a half grown cat ; the furniture is neat — not costly — and 
a hanging lamp sheds a mellow light over all. Oh! If there be one 
taste of heavenly bliss this side of the grave it is a happy home. But 
the young girl is not under the influence of that home ; she is on the 
street ; she has deceived her parents ; she is deceiving herself ; she has 
caught the eye of one who is waiting to deceive; she has fluttered 
her handkerchief in answer to his signal — she has turned on the cross- 
ing — she is evidently about to join him. Has Heaven no pity? Are 
the prayers of faithful parents not heard? She slackens her pace — 
hesitates in the middle of the street — stops — turns, and with flushed 
cheeks, palpitating heart and flying feet she is hastening toward home 
and safety. Why did she not destroy the peace and happiness of that 
home ? Call it what you may ; name it what you will ; but we shall 
always believe that it was the Power that ages before caused the 
enemies of Israel to hear the noise of myriads of chariots on the 
mountains, that caused her to hear the voices of men and angels 
sweetly singing in unison, "you can't fool with a fact." This 
sentence has been true for ages ; it is true tonight, and it will be true 
when millions of cycles of years shall have passed away. When the 
sphinxes shall have been forgotten; when the pyramids shall have 
crumbled into dust ; when age shall have leveled the mountains, 
crushed the rocks into powder and dried up the beds of the oceans; 
when the moon shall have become too old to undergo her changes; 
when the sun shall have grown cold and dim; when the earth swings 
hoary and gray with illions of ages, and the stars have fallen in 
glittering showers from the sunless firmament, leaving nothing but 
chaos in a decrepit universe ; when nothing but men, and angels, and 
God lives, then shall be heard a glad song, rolling its volume of sound 
over the plains of Paradise, sweet, clear, inspiring as that which woke 
the slumbering shepherds on Judea's hills, and its burden will be 
Eternal Truth, ' ' Gentlemen, you can 't fool with a fact. ' ' 

The Inquisitive Boy 

It was our intention to spend this hour in reflecting on the 
events of the year that has so recently closed, and to educe from its 
varied experience the line of action best to be pursued during the 
year that on yesterday took its position in the great calendar of time. 
But let us try ever so hard to write good advice — that we very much 
doubt will ever be heeded by others — we find another incident revealed 
by our reflective boarder, coming up and demanding our attention. It 



OUR HOUR ALONE 126 

seems in vain for us to debate the question of whether our readers will 
not rather demand something that has come under our own personal 
observation ; or that, as it is just passed the holidays, we should — to 
be in the fashion, of course — devote this article to some subject in 
connection with it. Such debate is rendered nugatory by the fact that 
there is such a really fine lesson in this incident for not only the boys 
and girls, but the men and women, as well, who read the Banner. The 
whole incident so vividly portrays the ideal part of human life, that 
we are led to the conclusion that men are but great, grown boys, and 
that we, too, have been during all these weary years climbing the steep 
and rugged hill to see if some of those curious and interesting things — 
many of them, no doubt, made so simply because we were not 
familiar with them — did not lie just on the opposite slope, and 
whether, when on the pinnacle, we could not be able to unravel all 
the great and terrible — but, yes, that is just the word — terrible mys- 
teries of life. 

It will be remembered that in a former article we stated that our 
friend, the boarder, was a man of far more than ordinary intelligence, 
and of keen perception, while, at the same time, he had cultivated a 
habit of reflection, or, in other words, drew some useful lesson from 
even the most trivial scenes and incidents of every day life. 

This knowledge will enable us to see that such a story is not only 
plausible, but that it is more probable to have happened, than that it 
should not have occurred, and leads us to the pleasing reflection that 
it was a laudable desire to satisfy a perfectly natural ambition, that 
prompted him to disregard discipline, and risk the disgrace of expos- 
ure to enable him to satisfy that desire. 

"I was," said he, "about my tenth year, extremely anxious to 
verify the things I had learned, principally from books — in regard to 
mountains, rivers, lakes, seas, oceans, islands, archipelagoes, and the 
thousand-and-one other things that a naturally vivid imagination led 
to believe must exist just beyond the range of my vision, and, perhaps, 
just over the crown of the hill that — from our playground before the 
old school house — seemed to me a very great distance indeed. I had 
consulted all the books in reach, and pored, with deepest delight on all 
the pictures of the above things that I could get my eyes on ; and now 
the idea struck me that just beyond the hill, my eyes would be feasted 
on all these — to me — glorious objects. 

"At last I conceived the idea that it would be a grand scheme to 
run away from school and climb the vision closing hill, and let my 
eager eyes feast, with unutterable delight, upon all the glory and 
grandeur of the fairy scene. 

"I remember distinctly how I did long for the coveted opportunity 
to come, and how I did wonder if the reality would not far transcend 



126 OUR HOUR ALONE 

my wildest fancy, and how impatiently I sought to elude the vigilance 
of the 'Master,' as we called him, and how I speculated on the chances 
for detection, and what the probable consequences would be, for, at 
that period, it was a much more serious matter to be caught in a 
school escapade than it seems to be now. 

"At last I mustered the necessary courage and stealing away un- 
observed, I trudged out on the road of discovery as buoyant as any 
of those whose names are connected with the first knowledge of seas, 
islands or continents. But the way seemed very long, and ere it was 
half traversed, my courage began to ooze out, and I reflected that per- 
haps some unforseen event might get me into trouble, so by the time I 
got half the distance my caution got the better of me, and slowed my 
gait until I finally stopped, and turning, retraced my steps, and suc- 
ceeded in keeping not only my absence, but my intention as well, 
from the knowledge of all. 

"But the idea of all those fine things just beyond the hill still 
kept haunting me, until in an evil moment, I again set out. This time 
I was determined to succeed, and so I kept resolutely on. Once I saw 
a man coming toward me from the hill, and to avoid detection — for 
the idea struck me that his mission was to see where I went and re- 
port. — I got over the fence and secreted myself until he was fairly out 
of sight, when I again took the high road, and in the course of time 
reached the foot of the hill, and began the weary ascent. But what I 
then thought a laudable spirit of enterprise urged me on until I at 
last reached the summit, and behold, not a single lake, river, sea, 
ocean, mountain, or even another hill was in sight, but the view 
seemed for all the world just like that upon the side I was accustomed 
to. 

"If the journey out seemed long, the road back appeared double 
in length, as the distance was beguiled by the pictures my fancy 
painted on the outward path. And then to think that not even the 
sight of a full rigged ship, that I counted on, appeared. It was too 
bad. 

"But I got back at last, to find that my absence was noted in 
school, and the old tyrant who ruled that helpless little kingdom 
administered a terrible castigation for the offense, volunteering the 
information that it was entirely for my good that he did it. 

"Of course, the bad news reached home before I did, and then I 
got a second punishment for the same offense, and was tortured into 
a solemn promise that I would never, never, never do the like again. 

"It took me some time to become reconciled to the disastrous 
termination of my venture, and even to this present time I fail to 
see the justice of the penalty, and think my ambition to extend my 



OUR HOUR ALONE 127 

knowledge to wider circuits a laudable one. And even yet, though 
nearly sixty years have rolled their solemn rounds, and spring's bright 
flowers have sprung and faded all, and summer, with her waving fields 
of teeming grain, has gone with silent steps away, and autumn's 
wealth of golden fruits has cheered the hearts of all earth's toiling 
sons, and winter's icy chill has numbed the hearts of men, driving 
their thoughts away from all the hopes and joys of fuller life, and 
turning them adown the misty slopes that lead us on toward that vast 
sepulchral city where all the former striving multitudes of ages past 
are sleeping in the cold embrace of that dread King, whose scepter 
sways all animated life, and whose cold touch has quenched the fires 
of love on such a countless host of family altars, whose sacred fires, 
but for His potent touch, had burned forever on ; yes, even though 
our weary feet have trod the devious paths of life for three score years, 
I still do follow on to climb the distant hill, and ever do expect to find 
the fairest scenes of earth beyond ; the full rigged ship of hope, the 
mountain of expectation high, the seas of love, the oceans of despair, 
the isles of joy, and all the pictures bright that fancy painted I strive 
to reach, and at the summit of each hill I find the apple turned to 
ashes on my lips ; but viewing still another hill beyond, I ever climb 
again. Nor is the tyrant 'Master' absent here, for old Experience, 
with his supple rod, lays on the stinging blows, and last, the Parent, 
in the form of old Remorse, chastises me for seeking out forbidden 
paths. ' ' 

You have our story, gentle reader; it has filled our mind during 
this Hour. It is of such large and varied application that you cannot 
fail to find a lesson in it. And if it teaches you to open the eye of 
thought and let reflection dwell on the smaller things of life and 
gather wisdom from them, I rest content, and softly say "Good 
Night." 

Backward Paths 

It often occurs that a very trifling incident changes the current 
of our thoughts, or, for that matter, our whole future course of life. 
This is the more forcibly presented to us from the fact that just as we 
sat down to the little table in the cozy parlor, to spend our allotted 
hour in silent meditation, our attention was attracted by the move- 
ments of a man crossing the street in the midst of this blinding drift, 
whom we used to know, away back in the careless days of yore. He 
is thinly clad, and great gaping rents can be seen, even at this distance, 
in his clothing. He has that emaciated, don't care look that is so apt 
to become a prominent feature in the countenance of those who have 
made up their minds that the battle of life is already decided against 
them, and who are only waiting to see what terms will be granted 



128 OUR HOUR ALONE 

when the final surrender comes. As he reaches the opposite side of 
the street he stops to stamp the snow from a pair of boots that would 
have graced a rubbish pile long before this, save for the fact that his 
cynical philosophy has taught him that a relic is better than nothing ; 
that the memory of better days is to be preferred to sheer forgetful- 
ness, and that he is in strict harmony with the poet who sang: 

" 'Tis better to have loved and lost, 
Than never to have loved at all." 

And so it seems to us that we can read his very thoughts as he pauses 
— perhaps mechanically — to shake the feathery flakes from the spots 
where the leather is still whole, and out of those places where it is 
gone and has left a hole. Memory has an unbroken chain, if we can 
but straighten it out ; and so what could be more natural than that 
his thoughts should wander back along all the checkered pathway 
of life, and show him — in retrospect, of course — the former events in 
which he has been a prominent actor. If the careworn expression on 
his face was not already stereotyped, it would certainly exhibit some 
sign of feeling during such a process; but it does not, and this is the 
best proof that he has been cowed, and is completely conquered. Well, 
what is the retrospect? The events of a single year are largely dis- 
remembered; but there are the shame and the disgrace of these sea- 
sons when he has been under the dominion of the spirit of wine, and 
he revels in them until they carry him back to a picture so fair and 
hopeful, that he starts back with involuntary surprise, to think that 
such a picture of hope was once a reality in his own life history. But 
he turns disgusted, and enters another path, in the hope that it may 
be less marred by failures in duty and he finds that it, too, is rendered 
a source of annoyance from the fact that sensual pleasures have not 
been curbed, and the way is strewn with wrecks of lovely virtue, 
and he is surprised to find that, in the end, the way is identical with 
the first path trodden. 

Again he retraces his steps, and choosing a path that seems, in 
this portion at least, to be traveled without fear of detection. Along 
it, strewn as thick as forest leaves in autumn time, lie the ruins of 
the temple of truth, at first so utterly in ruins as to be scarcely recog- 
nized, and, as he proceeds, showing less and less of ruin, until at last 
it stands a shining temple, beautiful in all the sjonmetry of its pro- 
portions, from turret to foundation, and the most curious of all is 
that it stands just where he abandoned the other two ways. 

Another path is tried and it soon appears that it has been thick 
set with finger boards on which, by some process, the words spoken 
by him while in that path have become indelibly written. Here are 
the ribald songs, the senseless jest, the obscene story, the horrid oath, 



OUR HOUR ALONE 129 

the blasphemous expression, the nauseating slang. A finger board 
every step for some distance but getting further apart, until the 
temple of truth looms up again, and he again sees the abode of virtue 
and the residence of sobriety, and finds but one path leading back 
from them all. 

He enters the road where he walked with her he once loved and 
honored, and at the start it is full of blasted hopes and withered 
flowers that have failed to develop into fruit. Here is the unkind 
word; there is the heartless oath; yonder is the recrimination that 
led to a bitter quarrel; they grow less and less frequent, and there 
is a space where two united hearts are bravely battling along the 
rugged road; then there is the merry youth and the modest maid, 
but they are in the shadow of that temple of virtue, and he finds 
but one road leading farther. 

He tries a path nearly choked up at the entrance, and finds 
along it, for long distances the evidence that he has rested under 
shrub and bush ; then these evidences become less and less frequent, 
till he sees them no more, but patches of garden and beautiful field 
appear, while in the opposite corner he again is confronted with the 
single way and sees the now familiar temple. 

He continues this process, tracing back obscure paths, tortuous and 
distinct at first, disagreeable and offensive in the highest degree, but 
all leading back to the same spot. He is surprised to find other paths 
between, and he finds the task of exploration a fatiguing one, and is 
led to entertain a desire to ascend the polished steps that lead up to 
the temple of virtue. 

He is encouraged to venture it. But how the holes in those 
dilapidated boots seem to expand as he places his feet on the polished 
surface ; how the rents in his threadbare garments appear to grow 
worse as he gets higher and higher. But he is inspired to keep on, 
and so he is soon in a condition to look back over the single path, 
and he discovers that it leads to a quiet farmhouse standing over on 
the slope of the distant hill, surrounded by beautiful groves, its 
spacious grounds watered by running streams, its garden bright with 
countless flowers, its fruitful field teeming with yellow grain, its 
lowing herds nipping the grass from slopes that are ever green, and 
a group of merry children playing in the yard, all of them intelligent, 
bright, healthy and full of hope. But one arrests his attention. It is 
a noble boy. His mother is just pointing out to him the glories of a 
summer sunset, and as he lifts his radiant face — ^radiant no less with 
conscious truth than with the rays of the fading orb of day, he is 
struck with the resemblance and drawing out an old time-worn album 
he turns to a picture, and behold it is a reality, for it is the picture 
of himself. 



130 OUR HOUR ALONE 

He gazes long and wistfully upon that quiet scene, and Oh, how 
earnestly he wishes that he had never made those devious roads that 
lead out from the temple where he is standing. But he realizes that 
time past can never be recalled, and the keen blast awakens him to 
the reality that these scenes are gone forever, and that the mere 
wreck of a former noble character — a character yet retaining many 
of the elements of honor — is shivering on the crossing of a street in 
Yates City, and that the chances are a hundred to one that he will 
die a pauper, and fill a nameless and unknown grave. 

Dear reader, we knew him in the days of his youth, ere the 
tempter, with his siren song, lured him on to ruin. You have seen 
him daily, and you realize that he is a wreck, stranded on the surf 
beaten shores of time, and so we have given you the fancy of an 
hour, hoping that if any of you are yet in the single path, or have 
not yet left the shining temple, you may be warned to shun those 
ways that will lead you to the same fate. 

The first cigar, the first chew of tobacco, the first social glass, the 
obscene jest, the half-in-earnest-half-in-fun lie, the dishonest act, the 
departure from the way of virtue, are the entrances to these paths. 
If our random thoughts enable you to shun them, we can hopefully 
bid you good night. 

Names and Honors 

"From our ancestors come our names, but from our virtues our 
honor." 

This is a sort of proverb or wise saying that is worthy of pro- 
found study by all, and more especially by the young. Our names 
are inherited ; that is, we mean the designation by which we are known 
to ourselves and others, as White, Black, Jones, Smith, Thomson, 
Hilligoss, Rodenbaugh, Killposey or Pancake. We are not responsible 
for them ; we were not consulted in regard to them. It may be the 
name we bear is not fully up to our taste as to names ; but it was the 
name of our father, our grandfather, our great grandfather, our great, 
great grandfather, ad libitum. These names are like a pair of spindle 
shanks, or stoop shoulders, or a crooked nose, or cross eyes ; they may 
not add to our dignity, but no one can accuse us of getting them by our 
choice. Many of us do not so much as know why we were not called 
Sampson or Snodgrass, instead of Opeinhammer or Husselcuss; nor 
why our parents could not as well have borne the patronymic of 
Stufl'elbeam or Deiffenbacher, instead of Swackenbecher or Ostrander; 
the thing was settled before we were separated from the mass of 
common matter by that mysterious process called creation, that is 
known to ignorance, yet it can not be explained by the most highly 
educated, and before our matter felt the vivifying touch of that im- 



OUR HOUR ALONE 181 

mortal spirit quickening the clay prison house of life, and was as 
much beyond our control as the spots on the sun, the location of 
continents or the movements of the planets. 

Even our first names though given perhaps after our infant lungs 
have become accustomed to disturbing the air by vibrations that strike 
on the tympanum of the ears of our friends in such a way as to pro- 
duce the sensation known as squalling, yelling, or crying, are some- 
thing that were tacked on to us before we were old enough to offer 
the congressman's amendment, or the lawyer's everlasting objection. 
All that we may hope to do is to wiggle through life with the cogno- 
men, whatever it may be, that the peculiar fancy of the moment has 
induced our parents or some other person to give us. It may be 
Sardanapalus, George Washington Curtis, or James Buchanan ; it may 
be Julius Csesar Augustus, or Andrew Jackson Donelson Johnson. 
It may be that devout parents have called us John, after the beloved 
disciple ; or Paul after the argumentative apostle ; or Peter, after the 
impetuous and ardent defender of the faith ; or Solomon, for the wise 
king; it may be Moses, Jonathan, Saul, Samuel, David or Aminadab. 
"We were too young to object ; perhaps we would not have done so if 
we could. Be that as it may, it is still true that "From our ancestors 
come our names. 

Some names, it is true, have become a scorn and a by-word among 
men. But this has not been the fault of the name but of the possessor. 
Judas, Nero and Benedict Arnold are instances of what we refer to ; 
but they, too, get their "Names from their ancestors." 

But it is just as true as to the other part of the proverb, viz, 
"But from our virtues our honor." Of course we are to understand 
by virtues moral strength and goodness. When we come to the years 
of maturity we have some character ; some bundle of qualities that 
makes us different from every one else ; some reputation that we have 
earned and that is accorded to us by common consent. With this 
character, this reputation, we go forward to honor or dishonor. 

It is not our purpose to discuss, in the present paper, the reputa- 
tion of those who have no virtues, though we doubt not but what the 
discussion would be profitable. It is our desire simply to call atten- 
tion to the lecture, the sermon botind up in the text that opens this 
article. 

Individuality is a distinctive feature of man. No two are alike. 
As among all the millions of earth no two heads are of the same shape, 
so among all these millions no two are alike in character. Still each 
one has made his own reputation. It is not necessary to be alike to 
be honored. We honor men for the display of numerous good qualities. 
Love, goodness, manliness, gentleness, sobriety, truth, wisdom, gen- 



132 OUR HOUR ALONE 

erosity and a host of others. But how do we become distinguished 
in any of them? "We have, in a former paper, tried to show that "No 
man was ever great by imitation." It is only after the race that the 
winner is awarded the prize ; it is only after the battle that the victor 
is crowned; it is only after the contest that laurel wreaths encircle 
the brow of the successful competitor. Honors do not come by chance ; 
the harvest is not gathered but by labor, the far summit is not reached 
but by effort; it takes constant endeavor to excel. Let the young re- 
member this; let them act on this, that to succeed we must be in 
earnest. 

You are the stately ship just launched ; your voyage is to be made 
over a rough and dangerous sea, where the cool head, the steady hand 
and the fearless heart will be required; you are the locomotive just 
out of the shop, and are to be tested on a road where there are many 
long bridges and high trestles, where great caution will be necessary 
in the driver. You are on trial; the verdict will be made up and 
handed in by a jury of your fellows ; they are watching you ; they are 
listening; they are carefully weighing the evidence. Are you aware 
of the fact? Do you realize the importance of it? Have you thought 
over this proverb? Have you a definite purpose in life? Have you 
considered that men are divided into two general classes, the honored 
and the dishonored? Are you aware that neither class inherit their 
position? Honor or dishonor comes not as your names come. They 
are the result of your own individual actions. 

As we sit here enjoying this Hour Alone there rises before us 
a vision of the youth of our land. They are a vast multitude, standing 
on the dividing line, mingling together; as we look the mighty con- 
course is separating into two distinct bodies. The bodies are dis- 
proportionate in size, but the choice seems voluntary. They are widely 
apart now; over one assembly is written "Honored;" they are no 
longer youths; they are old, wrinkled and gray; but they have been 
eminent for virtues. 

The other part we will not follow now. Over them is written a 
different inscription and a different course of life has added a thrilling 
though far less pleasing, interest to the story of their lives. With a 
clear understanding of the causes leading to the separation of the 
youth into two totally different classes, we may well ask you, in which 
of them do you wish to stand? 

Our aim is to induce you to cultivate the virtues that you may 
share in the honors. In Yates City and other towns where this 
Hour Alone will be read, are many of the boys and girls who are 
to make up these classes. "Will they learn this proverb, remember it, 
act upon its manifest wisdom, and profit by it? "From our ancestors 
come our names, but from our virtues our honor." Good night. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 188 

The Sick Child 

A sick child. Our attention was directed to it by a friend, one 
day, after we had been looking over the interesting part of a great 
city. The child was a boy, for child he certainly was although some 
eight summers had no doubt passed since the home of the parents was 
brightened by the advent of this little stranger. But the little frail 
life brought also anxiety as well as brightness, for it was soon known 
to the mother that the little one was far from being robust. It is 
a curious study to determine how a mother gains this knowledge so 
much sooner than a father does. But it is no less true than curious. 
It was some time before this father would consent to admit that the 
child seemed delicate. But the passing weeks revealed it so clearly 
that even the heart of affection could no longer ignore it. 

The father was a machinist; one of that class whose necessities 
compel them to go out at seven in the morning, carrying a tin blickey, 
and who are shut in with the dirt and smoke and stifling air of the 
shop until a delivering whistle sounds the hour of six. Then they go 
home to eat a frugal meal, read a few moments in the latest paper, 
and then drag a weary body, whose over taxed muscles are aching, 
to a bed where a feverish repose only partially restores the cruel waste 
of animal tissue, and leaves the body less able to fulfill the next day's 
task. 

The mother had been the daughter of a farmer, her young days 
being spent amid the sweetest and best scenes of nature, where shady 
groves, green fields, running streams, beautiful wild flowers, climbing 
vines, and innocent sports, beguiled the hours, and literally made her a 
careless child — not in the sense of neglect — but in the sense of being 
entirely free from care. 

Gentle reader, let me digress long enough to say that the happiest 
lot on earth is that of such a one, thus surrounded by nature's charms, 
"The fields and woods." 

But the tempter came. The manly young mechanic came out to 
visit a relative. They met, became interested, formed an attachment, 
built the usual number of air castles, got married, met their first serious 
care in the knowledge of the frailty of their first born, and soon found 
themselves loaded with the cares of life. Other little ones had come to 
share their affections and make demands on their bounty, until, as we 
saw them on that sultry afternoon, there were four children, the other 
three robust and hearty as children usually are. 

At last it became painfully evident that the sick child was fast 
losing strength, and in this terrible knowledge, they resolved to make 
a great sacrifice, and carry the drooping one away from the disease 



184 OUR HOUR ALONE 

engendering city, and give him the benefit of the "Pure sun and air 
of God," hoping in doubt, that he might be restored to health. 

Dear reader, have you ever watched a human flower fade and die? 
Have you, day by day noted the scarcely perceptible progress of decay, 
that marks the pathway to the grave? Have you watched that flower 
grow more beautiful even in decay? And noted the surpassing love- 
liness it exhibits, just before the great Father transplants it to the 
garden of paradise? 

If you have you know something of the feelings of that father 
and mother as they sat there waiting for the train that was to bear them 
to health — or a grave. 

A few months after, we were in the country between the towns 
of Ipava and Vermont, and having occasion to ask the direction, as 
well as to refresh ourselves with a draught of pure water, we alighted 
at a spacious farm house and entered it. 

There were perhaps a dozen people inside, and we saw at a glance 
that they were at the bedside of a dying boy. It took but a moment 
for memory to recall the scene at the depot in the city, and before us 
was the same family, with more of sorrow, more of fear, and not a 
ray of hope. 

"We did not speak; a lady stepped aside politely, in order to let 
as obtain a glance at the pinched features of the dying child. He 
was reclining in that sitting posture, so often the last one taken on 
earth, and was talking in that feeble, but clear voice, that is so 
usual in those who are almost done with earth. 

He spoke of the city and ran over nearly every object of interest 
connected with their home, asked if that was the noise of cars, and 
declared that he could hear the water as it fell in sparkling sprays 
from the artificial fountain in the yard of their wealthy neighbor. 

He spoke of the journey out to the country, seeming to be unroll- 
ing the curtain of the past, and looking at the beautiful pictures there. 
Then again he took up the things of the quiet country home, spoke 
of horses and cows, the dogs and pigeons, the bees and flowers, the 
fields of corn and stacks of grain, as well as the little brook and 
shady woods. His own was the only dry eye in that solemn little 
company, and he noticed it and began to say, "Don't cry, dear papa; 
don't cry lovely mama. You will be happy when I am gone, and I 
will rest so nicely in the beautiful graveyard, just below the old red 
meeting house of the Quakers." Here he made a slight motion toward 
a glass of water that stood on a little stand. An elderly woman took 
it up, and with a spoon, dipped in the liquid, moistened the parched 
lips. For a moment the muscles of the neck relaxed, and the weary 
head rested languidly on the snowy pillow ; then he started up, saying, 



OUR HOUR ALONE 135 

"Who called me? Good bye, papa, mamma, brothers and sisters, good 

bye, all; am sleepy; I must re ," he sank back on the pillow, and 

amid a low sound of wailing sorrow, the same woman who had 
moistened the parched lips but a moment before, stepped forward 
and gently pressed down the eyelids of a dead child. 

The next day on our return from Vermont to Ipava, we reached 
the little graveyard just as the funeral cortege filed into the gate. 
We stopped a few minutes, and reverently uncovered our head as the 
sound of the earth falling on the little coffin, mingled with the stifled 
cry of the mother, the sobs of father and children, as well as the 
solemn tones of the gray haired preacher, saying, "Earth to earth, 
dust to dust, ashes to ashes," reached our ears. 

About one year after, having occasion to pass the old Quaker 
graveyard, we were surprised to see a man and a woman standing by 
the side of a little white marble monument, in one corner of the yard. 
The man was pensively looking on the little mound of earth, while 
the mother's face was covered with a white handkerchief, which she 
pressed to her eyes, and we knew it was the first visit of sorrowing 
parents to the grave of their first born child. 

Dear reader, if you pass that road, seek out the little white monu- 
ment, surmounted by a lamb; it stands in the northeast corner; and 
as you recall the incidents of this Hour Alone, banish forever from 
your bosom the skeptic thought that would rob these parents, forever, 
of their child. 

Man Loves Beauty 

Man loves beauty, whether he be in a savage state or has reached 
the plane of enlightenment. 

Symmetry, proportion, beauty, fitness, all have a charm for him. 

The beautiful flower is preferred to the unsightly toadstool, even 
by those who have never studied botany, nor yet been taught to know 
that there is such a thing as symmetry. 

It does not take an educated person to point out the superiority 
of the fine, stately tree that has grown up as though under the care 
of the experienced gardener, over the old, twisted, gnarled, ill-shaped 
scrub that has been disfigured by the potent cyclone. 

The humming bird with its tiny form, symmetrical shape and beau- 
tiful plumage, will awaken a pleased feeling in the mind of the child, 
who is yet too undeveloped to give a reason for it, while the toad, 
with its puffed sides, its squab form and warty hide will cause him to 
shrink from it in disgust. 

Suppose, for a moment, that this earth had contained all else 
that it now has, and yet were destitute of flowers? Think you that 



136 OUR HOUR ALONE 

man would have been satisfied? Not for a moment. Why? Because 
the Divine mind, in the creation, made a want, and the flowers were 
but made to fill that inborn desire. 

Man was not designed to exist without woman. Hence we find a 
desire among men, not acquired, but innate, to have a handsome wife. 
In this we have a solution of the problem — if problem it be — why- 
women are more beautiful, more refined, more gentle, more loving. 
Here, too, we begin to understand why it seems so natural for a 
woman to adorn her person in the most becoming manner. It is not 
acquired, but natural ; and natural because required. 

This assimilation of our natural desires to ideas of beauty, and 
this feeling of sympathy with symmetry, proportion and correct 
blending of pleasing colors, and this refusal of the human mind to 
be satisfied with the commoner things, may teach us that man was 
intended for the earth, the earth for man, or better, perhaps, that 
when both were designed, each was expressly intended for the other. 

Suppose that not a single star had gemmed the glassy sky? Who 
could, for a moment have been delighted with the "beauty of dark- 
ness," even though a full moon, whose disc knew no waning, bathed 
the hills and vales in one eternal flood of mellow light? 

If one continuous chain of mountains after another reared their 
giant heads o'er all the earth, and not a single vale or level plain 
appeared, who could enjoy it, even though their silent peaks were 
capped in shroud of spotless white, and every setting suns bathed all 
their glittering peaks in gold ? 

If all were level land, how soon the eye would tire, even though 
a multitude of flowers decked all the sod, and myriads of sparkling 
gems were scattered 'mid its grass. 

If we could live without the moistened air, and not a pond, a lake, 
appeared or yet an ocean to divide the continents, how soon would 
we be weary of the world. 

It takes variety to make beauty. Hence we find our friends as 
various in their features and their shapes as they are numerous. 

We think there is a lesson in these thoughts. It would not take 
a seer to prophesy that there would be a difference in the character 
of the same person, if he were reared amid the most varied and beau- 
tiful scenery, surrounded by handsome animals, beautiful flowers, ex- 
quisite pictures and refined society, from what it would be if he 
were shut up in a dismal cave, away from the genial sunlight, sur- 
rounded by loathsome reptiles, hideous beasts, foul toads, and only 
had access to the company of the gross and sensual. 

If this be true, how important that we make our surroundings 
as pleasant and agreeable as possible. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 137 



The home where poverty forbids a picture on the wall, a vase, a 
vine, a flower, will, at best, but turn out a stunted character. 

The home that is made attractive and beautiful, where flowers 
bloom, where pictures adorn the walls, where curtains mellow the 
light, where vines creep o'er the roof, where music charms the soul, 
will send out those more nearly perfect. 

Dear reader, do you find a hint in this our silent hour? If so 
improve it well. You have a home ; adorn it with all the beauty that 
you can. Let love control the charges that you have to rear, and we 
may hope to see your boys and girls revere the sacred spot where 
father hoped and toiled, where mother worked and prayed. And may 
there come from out such homes, a race to give a larger liberty to 
man, kill out the seeds of crime, destroy the monster unbelief, give 
ampler scope to charity, give to our lovely land a better, juster, wiser, 
grander, nobler set of laws to govern those who toil beneath its flag, 
reach out the hand of faith to grasp the helping hand of God, and 
give a stronger trust in the unbounded possibilities of the life beyond 
the grave. 

From Different Angles 

*'0h, never mind, the Lord will provide," were the insinuating 
words that fell on our ears as we waited in the depot at Farmington 
for a train that, it seemed to us, in our impatience, would never come. 

It was some time ago, in the days when grasshoppers were devas- 
tating the fields of Kansas and Nebraska, and were making it doubt- 
ful, for the time, whether the venturesome spirit of emigration had 
not, at last, found a barrier that it would not be possible to overcome, 
and that would eventually drive it back upon the great, swarming, 
teeming, struggling centers of population, circumscribe the area of 
habitable land and force upon the attention of statesman and philos- 
ophers the gravest question that can ever confront them, viz. : What 
is to be the result, when the great, restless mass of human beings 
have no longer a place where their energy, their activity, their exuber- 
ance of spirit, if you please, can be utilized in conquering the wild 
frontier to the dominion of civilization. The great sympathetic heart 
of the nation was being stirred to its innermost recesses by the tales 
of want, woe and misery, that came back by letter, or appeared in 
the columns of the daily press. 

Nothing else so interests man, as that which concerns his fellow- 
man. It follows that the daily press, containing, as it does, the rec- 
ords of man's attempts, his successes or his failures, is read with far 
more avidity than even the sensational stories that emanate from the 
brain of the wildest dreamer in the realms of fiction. These wild, 
unnatural, fanciful stories appeal strongly to a portion, while by far 



138 OUR HOUR ALONE 



the larger share take no interest in them. On the contrary, the tamer, 
but far more exciting recitals of actual experience in the terribly earn- 
est incidents of every-day life, address themselves to all, and demand 
the intense attention of all. 

Of course, our attention was turned to the speakers. The one 
who had just so glibly used the quotation that closed her sentence, 
Avas a female, evidently unmarried, well, if not elegantly dressed, 
whose kids of numerous buttons, silk parasol, dainty boots and small, 
elegant gold watch, indicated to be the daughter of some one of the 
numerous wealthy farmers, then, as now, found located about that 
pretty little town. She had evidently grown up without having to 
exercise any very great anxiety about getting a living. Not that her 
appearance indicated that she did not work. On the contrary, had 
we followed her to the well stocked farm of her father, we should 
have been disappointed if she had not changed her attire for a neat 
calico dress, donned a large apron and a slouch sunbonnet, picked up 
a tin pail with a strainer fastened at one side of the upper edge, and 
tripped lightly down the walk toward the barnyard, humming a lively 
little air, intent on the effort to milk the sleek, fat, contented looking 
cows, that are so leisurely chewing their cud, about the great circular 
tank at the wind pump. She looked, in short, a worker, keen, shrewd, 
intellectual, devotional. One of those contented, happy beings who 
had never seriously thought of marrying, for the simple reason that 
she had never yet seen the man who came up to her day dreams of 
the man she could love. If you had told her she would die an old 
maid, she would have been shocked. But to the close observer she 
was in that category of anomalous females at the present time. Of 
course, she expected to marry some one, more than likely some Meth- 
odist preacher, and thus get ample scope for that peculiar trait of 
character that her remarks, recorded at the head of this article, 
attests she possesses. 

The person she addressed was a female, whose years numbered 
less than her own, of pleasing address, arrayed in modest apparel, 
neat, but inexpensive, holding in her plump round arms, a rosy child, 
the picture of health, and the image of some manly form, whose open, 
frank, generous ways had won her girlish heart, and tempted her to 
leave the humble home where she had spent very many happy hours, 
as well as very many of solicitude, for it must be evident that none of 
her family had been free from that unexplainable, but irksome and 
wearying anxiety that gives such undefined acuteness to those who 
struggle with the cares of life daily, and are never free from the 
worrying dread, that, in the next encounter, the enemy may get the 
mastery of us. Two other children, a boy and a girl, are busy inspect- 
ing the objects of interest in the average depot, the cuts of competing 



OUR HOUR ALONE 189 

lines, and the imaginary scenery along the route where miscalled 
statesmanship has given them the title to land that should have been 
kept for just such citizens as this woman is, no doubt, the wife of. 

In listening to the conversation, we learned that shortly after 
they were married, being ambitious to own a farm, they emigrated to 
Kansas, and spent all they had in getting a valid claim to eighty acres 
of land. The seasons had been unfavorable, and they were being 
cramped more and more, until the year opened with gloomy prospects. 
But the spring and summer had been favorable, and the star of hope 
had risen and was shining brightly. Her husband insisted on her 
making a visit to her parents, near Farmington. She hesitated between 
a sense of duty to her husband and love for her parents, but yielded 
at length, and came. The first letter from her husband was full of 
bright promise. But rumors of the great grasshopper plague began 
to thicken ; they were in this county and that ; she waited anxiously ; 
the fatal news came all too soon ; the pests had descended on prom- 
ising fields, at midday, and ere the shadows of evening fell not a green 
thing was left. She was on her way back, anxious to at least speak a 
word of comfort to her husband. 

She had related her sad, pathetic story to the speaker, who, with- 
out fully considering the full scope of the calamity to those in that 
struggling country, had replied in the words that now form the open- 
ing sentence in this Hour Alone. And we thought how easy it is to 
say the ''Lord will provide," when it is some one else who is in the 
desperate strait. But it has baffled even the most resolute Christian 
philosophy to feel resigned, when all things seem against us. It may 
be natural for us to attempt to comfort those who mourn. But it is 
idle to expect those afflicted to look through our spectacles, or look 
out on nature from our elevation. The storm sweeps away our habita- 
tion and kills our children; the fire destroys our goods; the harvest 
fails; the sad accident happens. We sympathize, but let us not mock 
human grief, or add to human misery by speaking that which is, to 
them, but idle words. 

The friends who met to condole with poor, afflicted Job, did not 
die childless, and their descendants are in all parts of the earth. 

Monuments 

Monuments ! Monuments ! ! Monuments ! ! ! This is the word that, 
despite our ablest endeavor to banish it, comes up again, again and 
again, as we are wishing to fix our mind on some subject that would 
edify and instruct. There is a curious psychological study for the 
observant, in the strange composition of the mind. It is confined by 



140 OUR HOUR ALONE 

matter, but is not controlled by it. It runs out into various channels, 
no difference how we may wish to confine it to one, or it may be it 
will persist in taking one channel when we have a desire to have it 
enter another. It would be useless to attempt to discuss these seem- 
ing inconsistencies in the space allotted to these papers. Indeed, we 
much doubt if the time would be well employed. Curiosity is a very 
useful quality in the makeup of human intelligence. If it were want- 
ing, then, would man be content to rest satisfied with present attain- 
ments, present happiness, present conditions? In this ease there would 
be no motive urging man to invade the vast, untrodden, and, we were 
about to say, uncomprehended domain of matter. Wanting it man 
must have remained an unlettered nomad; a sort of aimless, listless, 
unconcerned animal. 

Astronomy would never have penetrated the vast distances sepa- 
rating the planets, to weigh them in the balance, to calculate their 
seasons, to determine their equinoxes and to disclose, by aid of the 
spectrum, the very metals that are buried in their mountains. 

Wanting it, zoology would never have been able to take a single 
bone, and from it, construct the entire carcass; nay, more, depict it 
on the speaking canvas, and tell the ages in which it lived, its man- 
ner of life, its natural food, and the exact time when it disappeared 
from the field of natural history. 

Wanting it, ornithology would want a name, and the feathered 
warblers, those sweet praisers of the eternal Creator, would never 
have been classified, nor their habits understood. 

Wanting it, botanical research would never have established the 
geometrical exactness of nature, nor unfolded the beauty and sweet- 
ness hidden in the flowers and plants that diversify and make pleas- 
ing the landscape. 

Wanting it, the power of steam would have remained unknown, 
and the commerce of a world would have been crippled and cramped, 
millions of acres of land been forever untillable, and civilization been 
confined in its narrow sphere until it would scarcely have been dis- 
tinguished from barbarism, if, indeed, it had ever reached the line of 
demarcation between them. 

Wanting it, the cotton plant would be a useless shrub, tobacco a 
noxious weed, chemical combinations unknown, the sewing machine, 
the reaper, the corn planter, and the thousands upon thousands of 
useful implements unheard of. 

Without it, the rude artist would still, with the burnt end of a 
stick, have traced the hideous outlines of the picture; the printing 
press would not, as now, pour its mind moulding volume of fact and 



OUR HOUR ALONE 141 

fiction, like a great ocean of thought, into the hearts and homes of all 
men; the telegraph, the telephone, the electric light, would not have 
come within the domain of man's knowledge, and helped to solve the 
leading mysteries of the world. 

Without it, geology would never have dug into the bowels of the 
earth, nor caused the solid rocks to deliver up the great secrets that 
seemed to be securely hidden in their solidity; nor yet would the 
silent ages composing the periods of the different formations be 
known to us. 

Had it not been for it, the adventurous spirit of discovery would 
never have braved the perils of unknown seas in search of lands that 
existed only in the active mind of those who lived a hundred years 
too soon to be appreciated. 

Without it, the longest and largest rivers, the highest mountains, 
the most fertile valleys, the most valuable forests might have been but 
a fabled dream. 

Lacking it, the desolate solitudes of the far north, those massive 
and stupendous fortresses of ice, where silence is so deep as to be 
oppressive in its very nature, never would have had their echoes 
broken by the voice of man. 

Curiosity may not have been the only factor in these startling 
developments, but, it has been the promptor in them all. It would 
not do to curb a quality that has developed such magnificent results, 
and we have no desire to do so. Curiosity prompts to investigation, 
investigation leads to action and action results in the advancement of 
the human race in all that is ennobling and elevating. 

But here, as we drop our pen, and silence settles around us, we 
again hear the repetition, monuments ! monuments ! ! monuments ! ! ! 
And we start as from a reverie, with the impression that we have 
drifted entirely away from our subject, and that our mind, following 
the only well defined law recognized in regard to it, has played the 
truant with us. But as we glance our eye back over these pages, 
we are surprised to discover that we are mistaken, and that every- 
thing we have jotted down is a monument to man's courage, integrity, 
perseverence and onward progress, that will live when marble shafts 
shall have crumbled into dust, and be undistinguished from the sands 
of the desert. 

Yes, dear reader, the people of this generation are now building 
monuments. It may be that even in this silent hour some secret spring 
may have been set in motion that will yet reveal to us a monument 
more lasting than any granite block. At least we are satisfied that 
to see monuments we do not have to visit a cemetery. 



142 OUR HOUR ALONE 

Selfishness 

Mankind, as a mass, is in the main, just; but individually this is 
not the case. It is true that : 

"When self the wavering balance shakes, 
'Tis rarely right adjusted." 

If we assert that it is a "self-evident fact that all men are created 
free and equal," man vt^ill give a general, indefinite answer saying, 
"Yes, you are right; your position is well taken, and the expression 
embodies a grand idea." In such a case there seems to be no dispo- 
sition to quibble on technicalities. Nothing seems to obscure the mental 
vision, or warp the moral judgment. But you talk to some individual 
about being just to the man who joins fences with him and we soon 
discover that he is not able to discern where his brother's rights appear, 
or else his moral sensibility is so blunted as to render him incapable 
of exhibiting that spirit — learned not from the cold, barren wastes of 
a universe created by the clouded intellect of him who discards reve- 
lation and seeks comfort only in the belief that God is nature, and 
nature is God — which is anxious to accord to every other individual 
the same rights insisted upon for himself. 

The proposition that Africa should be civilized and her uncouth 
tribes taught the rudiments of Christianity, will not long be debated 
anywhere. But if two families live in close proximity, and a hen's 
nest be found within a gnat's eyebrow of being equi-distant from 
each, it takes a remarkable amount of grace to enable either the one 
or the other to believe that it was not their hen that had added to the 
aggregate wealth of the world by depositing the dozen or fifteen 
eggs found in it. In this case it cannot be the value that blinds a 
correct sense of justice, because the amount to realize is small enough 
to preclude such an assumption. The inference seems, then, fair, that 
man is naturally selfish. 

It may have been noticed that if two men own contiguous farms, 
and a division fence is to be built, and they agree to start at oppo- 
site ends of the line and pace to the center, that when they came to a 
final halt, each will have passed the other several rods, while both 
will be reasonably certain that the other must be mistaken. Now 
both of these very men would agree that congressmen were easily 
bribed, or that South America would be benefited by an increase of 
Sunday schools. What is the inference? If we were to hint at the 
true character of that inference, we might injure the feelings of both 
men. 

If two thrifty and well-to-do farmers have grain fields in reach 
of each other, and the stock of the one gets into the enclosure of the 
other and destroys a quantity of the grain, and they walk out together 



OUR HOUR ALONE 143 



to investigate the depredation, and determine the damage, it is barely 
possible that in guessing on it they will be nearly, if not quite, one 
hundred bushels apart. If this should occur, we would venture to 
say that the man guessing the lowest number of bushels, owns the cat- 
tle, while the man guessing the highest owns the field of grain. Still 
these same two men would sign papers to declare that according to 
their best knowledge and belief, Samuel J. Tilden was elected presi- 
dent, and got an addition to his barrel for permitting an 8 to 7 com- 
mission declaring that another man was entitled to that position, 
"What is the logical conclusion? It must be plain to observing people, 
that some potent factor is present in one case, and lacking in the 
other. 

We have seen two men go home from a rattling good devotional 
meeting at the church, their hearts all aglow with zeal for the good 
cause, and yet in attempting to trade horses, the one would gravely 
assert that a knock-kneed tacky, not an hour under twenty years old, 
was a four-year-old colt scarcely broken to the harness; while the 
other repeats time and time again, that a spavin as prominent as a 
musk rat's nest was on that colt when he was foaled. Both of these 
men would — in order to divert the attention of the other from a weak 
eye that he was fearful he would discover — talk eloquently about the 
low ebb of Godliness, and the need of a powerful revival, while the 
other would assent to it all, hoping in this way to prevent the other 
from noticing that his horse had contracted the habit of cribbing. 
What is the logical conclusion? Is it that religion is a failure or a 
fraud? Certainly not. It only shows that two knaves have borrowed 
the "livery of heaven, to serve the devil in," and that selfishness has 
blunted the moral perception to such a degree that either would sell 
their heaven for a small mess of very thin gruel. 

We have known two women, handsome, intelligent — as the phrase 
goes — members of the same sewing society, neither ever missing an 
opportunity to attend the regular meeting at sister so-and-so's, be 
glib enough of tongue so that in case of an emergency either could, in 
less than two hours, persuade Deacon Grasp to subscribe ten cents 
to the fund for furnishing supplies for the widows of a coal mine 
disaster, the good Deacon blandly saying, while rubbing his hands as 
though a chilliness pervaded his frame, "that it is not often I give so 
large a sum at once, as there are so very many of these charitable 
calls, but really Mrs. Stivem, the case seems so deserving, and you 
present the case so strongly, and in your witching manner, that really 
one must be liberal, if for no other purpose than to satisfy so clever 
and handsome a leader as you are." And the good Deacon lays one 
hand on the lovely sister's shoulder, chuckles her under the chin, and 
waddles off to order his attorney to evict Tom Dauly, whose wife h?'* 



144 OVR HOUR ALONE 

the consumption, and whose children — poor, puny beings — have never 
known a well day, for the reason that he ''has failed to pay his rent 
and here it is the fifth of the month." Yes, we have actually known 
these women to go home from such a scene and get by the ears over an 
old turkey hen and eight little weakling turkeys that may never 
grow to grace a Thanksgiving table. Both are positive as to the 
identity, both determined as to having possession, and both in advo- 
cating their assumed rights forget the smooth, winning flattery used 
on the Deacon, call each other certain vile epithets, that we care not 
to repeat. What is our decision after knowing these things to be so? 
Not that these women are arrant knaves, oh, no! but simply that "deep 
down in the human heart there is an element of extreme selfishness 
that is aroused to activity in nearly all cases where our individual 
interests are brought into conflict with those of our neighbors. 

But wasting hours warn us to pursue these thoughts no further 
at this time. We have no desire to make a personal application to 
our readers, but if they think themselves tainted with this blemish of 
character, as we badly suspect ourself, then it will be no detriment if 
we read this article over carefully again, and then make a solemn 
promise that we will guard more carefully our conduct, especially 
when we are called on to decide between ourselves and others. 

A Sad True Tale 

The wind went around to the northwest this morning, the mer- 
eurcy is sinking, fine particles of snow, cutting with their keen edges, 
like ice points, are filling the air, driven about in the eddies formed 
by buildings, or speeding away before the biting blast in white clouds 
that almost obscure the vision. 

There is something about the winter that is sad and mournful 
and dirge-like, and gives to us an inexpressibly melancholy feeling. 
Nature is dead. The great pulsing life of summer is gone. The voice 
of the song-bird is not, for it is basking in the genial rays of the 
tropics. The lowing herds have deserted the hillsides for the shelter 
of the valleys, or the protection of farm buildings. No springing 
grass, no budding flowers, no teeming grain. The bare branches of 
the trees, waving to and fro in the wind, seem to be reaching out to 
us for consolation, in their grief for the death of the beautiful foliage 
that but a short time before crowned them in regal splendor. The 
ground covered with its mantle of white ; the distant hills, looming 
up against the leaden sky; the silence of the woods, save for the 
tenderly sad moaning of the wind; the streaks of light gray, where 
the juiceless stalk, denuded of its golden ears, stands in silent solem- 
nity; the sullen sound of the imprisoned river, as it forces its unseen 



OUR HOUR ALONE 145 

way beneath its icy fetters; the cracking of the weather boards as 
the giant hand of the frost king shortens the nails that fasten them; 
the hurrying tread of the overshoe-muffled feet as they hasten to seek 
the shelter and heat and comfort of home; all these, and a thou- 
sand others that come up to remind us that decay and death follow 
the footsteps of beauty and life everywhere, but tend to sadden us 
and are prone to call up from that vast storehouse of knowledge, 
memory, the dreariest scenes and the most mournful events that we 
have encountered along the dreary vale of life. 

Such a scene obtrudes — yes, we will say obtrudes, for it is not 
altogether welcome — upon our attention now. It stands out before us 
such a terrible reality that we could wish to vanish its memory for- 
ever, and yet so appealingly sad that though we are looking straight 
out of the window eastward we forget for a moment the hideous ugli- 
ness of Grange Hall; forget the beautiful contrast of the dark green 
blinds with the snowy whiteness of the paint on cranky Andy's 
house ; forget, for a time, that the crimson curtains over the way were 
purchased with the money spent to put the firey demon of alcohol 
into the brains of those who, without it, were "a little lower than the 
angels," and with it are more degraded than "the meanest spawn of 
hell." 

But it stands there, ghost-like and sad, and seems to urge us to 
attempt a meager sketch of its outlines, a bare mention of its crushing 
blight to at least one heart, in order that those who read this Hour 
Alone and have the charge of youth may realize the responsibility 
of that charge; or if, perchance, they be among the number of the 
innocent youth, they may be warned; or if — which heaven forbid — 
they, too, have soiled their feet in sin's dark ways that they may 
know there yet is sympathy in one human heart akin to that which 
welled in love divine from out the Savior's when he said, "Neither 
do I condemn thee, go and sin no more. ' ' 

Some twenty years ago we were teaching school in an unpreten- 
tious neighborhood, near the town of C , in a neighboring county. 

The school house was small and unattractive looking outwardly, but 
rather neat and comfortable within; the scholars such as generally 
fall to the lot of the country teacher. The people such as you find in 
the more prosperous agricultural portions of "The Military Tract," 
most of them intent on laying up money or earning a decent living. 
They were all kind and courteous to the teacher whom poverty and 
a desire to provide for a black-eyed girl-wife and a strutting mixture 
of flannel and impudent flesh, whose uncles had taught to denominate 
himself "Captain" by the time he was a year old, had thrown into 
their midst. But, while this was the case, there was the usual amount 



146 OUR HOUR ALONE 

of the ills and accidents of life, an ordinary amount of gossip, and 
sometimes a morsel of scandal. 

Among those well known to that circle was a girl of exceeding 
beauty, full of vigor and life, the moving spirit in festival, dance, 
party, picnic or ride. She occupied the humble but by no means 
degrading position of "domestic" in the family of a well-to-do farmer. 

One day on our return from the humdrum duties of the school, 
we were shocked to learn from the lips of the old man in whose fam- 
ily we boarded, that the girl— who shall be nameless here — was gone 
from the family of her employer, and that she had left in order to 
avoid the shame of an exposure that she could hope to conceal but a 
short time longer. Of course, it created a breeze in that usually quiet 
neighborhood, and among different classes was treated in different 
ways. The older women were nearly unanimous in condemnation, and 
wound up by blaming the lady whose domestic she had been. The 
young women concluded that she had "carried her head too high," 
and declared that not for the world would they associate with her 
more. Old men regretted that "times were so changed since they 
were young," while the young men, among themselves, spoke of it 
with a degree of levity and indifference that indicated a total lack of 
respect for female virtue. 

There seemed to be a mystery hanging about the girl's early his- 
tory. If any one was able to unravel it they did not do so. Some 
said she was herself illegitimate, and had been sent here to cover 
crime and shame ; some thought she was a waif from some county 
house, and had drifted out upon the stream of society through the 
kindness of a family whom poverty and sickness compelled to desert 
their charge; some persisted in saying that she was here by the 
failure of relatives to discharge duties assumed in the presence of 
death, when a young and beautiful mother appealed to God and kin- 
dred to assume charge of a treasure that she must relinquish. These 
questions, and kindred ones, were debated for the usual nine days, 
and then the surface of society closed over her as smoothly as the 
deep water closes over those who have ceased to struggle, and she was 
apparently forgotten. 

We, too, had almost ceased to recur to the event, being compara- 
tively young, and but little versed in the sadder experiences of life, 
while the prejudices of an early education that had failed to teach us 
the distinction between hate for the sin and the sinner helped us to 
determine that it was her own fault, and that our own character would 
suffer if we permitted a ray of light from the great sun of love, planted 
in the heart by our Heavenly Father, to go out toward her, that it 
might kindle anew the flickering flame of virtue in that desolate and 
despairing bosom. 



>, i 



OUR HOUR ALONE 147 

One Saturday, along toward the close of a remarkably bleak, 

cold January, we were hurrying along the streets of C , anxious 

to escape from the effects of a cheerless day, for all the world like 
today, when we heard a familiar voice call our name, and turning we 

saw Dr. M in his cutter, wrapped in a comfortable robe. He 

asked us if we would not accompany him to his home, a point he 
intended to reach as soon as he had visited a patient at a house where 
a few charitable women took care of the unfortunate. Stepping under 
the robe held open for us, we were soon speeding along, enjoying the 
cheerful chat of the genial doctor, who was about equally divided in 
his love for his chosen profession, his accomplished wife, and litera- 
ture, especially poetry. 

On arriving at the house he invited us to enter in order to get 
warm ; what was our surprise on entering to see a beautiful face, look- 
ing out from the folds of a coarse but clean pillow slip, wan and 
emaciated, but lighted up with that unearthly light that indicates the 
near ending of the great battle of life. The moment our eyes met we 
recognized the girl who but a few short months before had gone out 
from our neighborhood, no one knew whither. The wail of a new-born 
infant, cradled in another part of the room, told us that another poor, 
weak human soul had tasted the bitterest cup of life, and reached at 
the same time the highest ambition of woman, maternity. 

She recognized us at once, and a tear glittered for a moment on 
that transparent cheek, but it was but for a moment, for she was 
nearing that point where the fountain of grief is dried forever. She 
called for the child, and it was laid in her arms. The wealth of a 
mother's love was in the look she bent upon that tender, innocent face. 
The inexhaustible treasure of a mother's love was imprinted on that 
downy face with every passionate kiss. Exhausted, her feeble hold 
relaxed, and the infant's head rested on her wan cheek for a moment, 
and then was removed. For a moment we thought all was over, but 
she rallied and we made an abortive attempt to soothe her by words 
of kindness. The doctor gave some subdued orders, left a potion, 
and motioned us away. 

The next day we asked leave to accompany the doctor again, 
determined, if possible, to learn of her early history, but on our arrival 
we saw a cot covered with white drapery, and learned that the mys- 
tery of another life had been solved. 

As the cover was removed we looked in tearful sadness on that 
form, matchless in the repose of death, and on those features, more 
beautiful now, that the look of suffering had departed, and we won- 
dered if society with its false system was responsible for her mur- 
der. 



148 OUR HOUR ALONE 

While we were yet there to make some arrangements for the 
funeral, which was set for that evening, the infant was seized with 
croup, and in less than two hours it was with the girl-mother among 
the stars. It was placed in the arms of the dead mother, and it 
seemed hard to look on that scene and realize that death is deemed a 
cruel monster. Was he not to her a sweet release from sorrow, sin 
and shame? 

The storm of the preceding day had but gathered force, and as 
■we — two faithful women, the doctor and ourself — followed the four 
kind-hearted men, who had voluntered to carry the coflfin down the icy 
walk toward the desolate graveyard, the howling blast sifted the cruel 
snow into our faces until it was scarcely possible to see. 

In a remote corner, the poorest, wettest spot in that inclosure — 
and we have often wondered why the selfishness of man goes even 
to the graveyard, and gives the poorest, meanest place to poverty — 
we halted, took a last look at the beautiful face, the luxuriant, black 
wavy hair of the mother, and the innocent face of the child, and they 
were consigned to the last abode of all men. There let her sleep until 
the morning of the resurrection. There was a partner in this crime, 
of course. But twenty years has obliterated the memory of the 
wronged girl ; while he who was not a particle less guilty in the sight 
of God, is courted by society and bears the title of "honorable." 

Is it any wonder that we are glad to turn away from this sad 
picture, or that we thank God that in the time when He makes up 
His jewels there will be none of the criminal conventionalities of soci- 
ety to condemn the erring for whom Christ died ? 

Dear reader, are you a mother? If so, let the broad mantle of 
charity be cast over the erring one, for you have a daughter. Are you 
a father or brother? Remember that the girls you come in contact 
with are near and dear to some one. Are you the blooming maiden, 
entrusted with the jewel of chastity? Oh, guard it as the priceless 
treasure, looking to Heaven for strength. And let the picture, so 
deeply graven on our memory, of the dreary winter day, the howling 
storm, the beateous face of that dead mother, clasping in her lifeless 
arms the token of her shame, and the lonely grave over which the 
flowers of twenty summers have faded, help to teach us that the foun- 
tain of human sympathy should never be closed. 

As we sit here in the gathering shadows of this cheerless night, 
we almost imagine — it may be the music of the wind on the telephone 
wires — but it sounds like the voice of the compassionate One saying 
"Neither do I condemn thee, go, and sin no more." 



OUR HOUR ALONE 149 

Be True 

" — To thine own self be true, 
And it must follow, as the night the day. 
Thou canst not then be false to any man." 

It is past twelve, midnight. This will be emphatically an hour 
alone. The three lines quoted at the head of our article are placed 
before us written on a ragged scrap of soft paper, that was hastily torn 
from some patent sheet, at the moment the lines met our eye. Of 
course, we are on the watch for incidents that may be of use to us in 
our prized intercourse with our dear readers. 

We took the trouble to note these down as a text for some future 
article. Of course, as we are not a preacher, our text may be taken 
outside the Bible. Not that we do not think the Bible contains the 
grandest pictures, the most beautiful texts, the sublimest truths, the 
most comforting promises, for it certainly does. But then we are not 
forbidden to make use of truth even if it be found elsewhere. Beauti- 
ful flowers spring up outside of carefully cultivated gardens; costly 
treasures are deep buried in the rocks; sparkling gems are hidden in 
the deep caverns of the ocean ; and diamonds of truth are met in most 
unexpected places. We are not able to tell where our text is to be 
found. We do not even know the name of the author. It may have 
been "some mute inglorious Milton." It may have been some one who 
had just passed through a season of severe temptation. It may have 
been some one whose eye had caught the "silver lining" to the dark- 
est cloud of life. "We know not, may not tell." But one thing we 
do know, and that is that these lines contain food for much serious 
reflection. Each line is "a gem of purest ray serene." The first one 
has a golden text, "be true;" to whom? "to thine own self." Bind 
that golden text about thy brow, and let it be to thee a banner, under 
whose folds thou shalt go forth to victories over thyself, over error, 
over sin, over satan, over every foe. "To thine own self be true." 
Then you will be true to man, in the generic sense, to your fellows, 
your neighbors, your friends, your children, your wife, your brothers, 
your sisters, to father, mother and God. If you are thus true to 
thyself, then "Thou canst not be false to any man." Here is some- 
thing inevitable. If the first be observed, the second follows as a 
logical conclusion. It is an utter impossibility to be true to self, 
and false to others. If the first be admitted, the second becomes an 
axiom. The first is given in the form of a command. It is in the 
imperative mood. "Be true." Obey this, "And it must follow, as 
the night the day," that "Thou canst not then be false to any man." 

There is a gem in the last two words, "any man." It is far 
reaching and comprehensive. It embraces all. Not God only, for 
the inborn desire to revere and worship a superior intelligence might 



150 OUR HOUR ALONE 

furnish a motive. Not to father or mother only, for that feeling that 
nature has placed in the mind of every human being, and that binds 
them to the parents in bonds, that death, perhaps, will but intensify, 
might make us true to them. Not to friends only, for a feeling of 
gratitude for favors received might be the promptor. It includes 
all these, but it goes infinitely beyond them. "Any man!" Can that 
be possible? Not false even to a foe! True to your enemy! Yes, 
here is the test. It is easy to sail on placid waters, when 
the wind is lulled to rest, and the air is pleasant, and 
the sunshine warm. But let the sky be overcast; let the gale come; 
let the angry waves lash themselves into fury, and it takes nerves to 
stand up and calmly do one's duty. It is easy to glide smoothly along 
the journey of life, in the days of prosperity, but it takes the stuff 
of which heroes are made to guide the man through adversity. It is 
easy to be true to those who are true to us. It is even true that a 
selfish spirit will urge us to deal justly with those who have favored 
us. But when it comes to an enemy, a foe! To deal justly in such a 
case ; to rise above envy, malice, anger, revenge ; to put prejudices 
aside, and be true to a foe, is to forget that we are human, and realize 
that we are a spark of Divinity itself. There is but one way to do this. 
It is to be true to our own selves. If we are, then as sure as nature's 
laws, as sure as the dark shades of night follow the glad sunshine of 
day, as sure as the planets remain in their orbits, so sure will we be 
not false to any man. 

Be true to every noble and generous impulse of the soul. If 
idleness comes to lull you into indolent repose, be true. If avarice 
bids you unduly hoard, be true. If the gambler comes and bids you 
win what you have never earned, be true. If envy bids you aim the 
dart, be true. If falsehood comes to plead some dire necessity for de- 
ceiving, be true. If murder rears his hideous form athwart your 
path, be true. If beauty, with her seductive wiles, should plead "The 
illicit love," be true. If the sparkling cup attempts to lure you on to 
death, be true. If the voice of warning comes, be true. In all con- 
ditions, under all circumstances, in every position, and in all eases, 
dear reader, be true to thine own self — to all — to any man. 

When you deal with your fellow man, be true. When you deal 
with God, be true. In dealing with religion, be true. In dealing with 
temperance, be true. In dealing with the poor, be true. In life, be 
true; in death, be true. 

It is late; wearied nature pleads for rest. But something seems 
to say to us, be true to the boys and girls who read these articles. 
Ask them kindly, but earnestly, to be true to themselves. Remember 
that all hinges on that. Study these three lines. Commit them to 



OUR HOUR ALONE 161 

memory. Act on them. And, in order that you may do so, we will 

let them close this Hour Alone. 

" — To thine own self be true, 
And it must follow, as the night the day, 
Thou canst not then be false to any man." 

The Gun and the Hare 

There are a great many failures in this world that come upon us 
that are brought about because it is beyond our power to combine 
the proper circumstances to bring about a success. It is said that 
''there is a tide in the affairs of men that, if taken at the flood leads 
on to fortune." But it takes good judgment to determine just when 
the tide has reached the flood. Then it may happen that just at the 
flood, we are unable to take the tide because something is not then in 
our reach, that is necessary to the taking. 

It is true that the "best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft 
agley. " The little winter home was builded with the greatest of 
care, lined with the softest of wool, stored with the toilsomely 
gathered gleanings of the smooth clipped stubble and — so far as 
mouse knowledge was concerned — nothing was left undone to secure 
the comforts of home for the winter. But the rough plowshare came 
crushing into it and it was scattered to the four winds of heaven, and 
the timorous little occupant was seeking to hide from the greater 
danger it apprehended from him whose hands had guided the share 
into its cherished place of shelter. It is no wonder that the weary 
poet ploughman, as he sat on the beam, with the lines falling neg- 
ligently down from his aching shoulders and his weary feet resting on 
the edge of the furrow, should let his fancy toil with the extent of the 
ruins, and that his heart — always ready to sympathize with mouse, 
devil or man — should go out to the little "beastie," thus suddenly 
bereft of its all. 

But we must call a halt to this train of thought, though it is 
leading us away into a land where we so love to linger, and turn it 
into the channel that was indicated by the opening sentences of this 
Hour Alone. Subjects are often suggested by some remark heard 
causally, or by some little incident that we chance to experience. 

One morning this week a friend asked us if we remembered a 
couple of companion pictures that appeared in Scribner's Magazine 
about ten years ago. In one of them an old darkey is seen cautiously 
peering about a spacious field, with an old gun under his arm, and 
below is the following: "Oh, I wish I could see a hare." 

In the other is seen the same darkey in the same spacious field, 
but he is minus the gun, and a fine fat hare is scudding away before 
him, while he exclaims: "Oh, I wish I had a gun!" The humor of 
these companion scenes is the first thing that strikes one, but the 



152 OUR HOUR ALONE 

humor is not all by a great deal. The artist who conceived the pic- 
tures no doubt intended to teach us that very often in this life we 
may have the gun, while our best efforts are futile to discover the 
hare for which we are looking. And that after we are weary of the 
hunt, and refuse longer to be burdened by the gun, that the hare 
starts up before us, scuds away over the fallow ground, and we find 
ourselves wishing that we had not so soon become discouraged, and 
that we had longer persevered. 

Tonight as this old picture — which, by the way, we only heard 
described — comes up before our mental vision, we are carried to the 
same point of observation from which the artist looked out over the 
narrow field in which his genius crowded so much of genuine 
philosophy, and the field seems to widen out, its boundaries stretch 
out until it takes in the whole world, and we can see, oh, such a great 
number who are tramping about with the gun on their shoulder and 
the earnest desire in their heart to see the coveted hare. But the 
feet become weary and sore, the eye becomes tired, the body fatigued, 
the heart discouraged, and they go home and hang up the gun, sure 
that for them there is no hare. 

Then we see them again with the earnest and anxious look on 
their faces as all unexpectedly, in the middle of the field, the hare 
starts up, and as they stand gazing after its swiftly receding form, 
they exclaim with all the earnestness of the old darkey, "Oh, that I 
had a gun!" 

It may be possible that after all what we call luck is just one 
of the few fortunate cases where one has persevered and carried the 
gun until the hare was sighted. 

Where would Gen. U. S. Grant's place in history be had it not 

been for the ac no, we will not use that word, we do not like it — 

but we will say for the fortuitous circumstances that brought himself, 
the gun and the hare together in the field. 

Where would be the fame of our immortal Washington, had he 
not had the gun on his shoulder when the hare broke cover in his 
front? 

Where would be the cherished memory of the sainted Lincoln, if 
he had traversed the field without the gun to secure the fleeing hare? 

It is not the number of stories we hear that gives us knowledge ; 
it is the amount of earnest, serious, careful thought that we give to 
those we do hear that makes us more wise. It is not the number of 
pictures we see that gives us broader views, and more comprehensive 
understandings; but it is our faculty of being able to catch the in- 
spiration of the artist, the placing of ourselves in his position and 
looking through his glasses that enables us to gather and profit by the 
wisdom that he partially hides in his picture. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 168 

All who will read this article are wandering somewhere in the 
field ; there is a hare that we will see sooner or later ; are we determined 
to hold on to the gun so that our one opportunity may not be lost? 

Let us remember that if we would not fail, ourselves, the gun, 
the hare and the field must be combined at the proper time. Our 
wish for you, dear reader, is that you may not attempt to search the 
field in which your life is cast without the gun. 

The Hog Bite 

On last Monday evening, about four o'clock, we were standing 
in front of the Banner office, when a number of boys and girls came 
along, we suppose from practicing for the concert that was to be given 
at the M. E. church that evening. A majority of them would have 
been caught between the ages of 5 and 9 years. They were a merry, 
noisy, happy set, and just as they came in front of us we noticed 
that one had a nice apple in his hand, and a companion was nagging 
for a bite of it. The boy held it out and the other removed a bite that 
left a fearful gap in the rotundity of the apple. "Oh, there," cried' 
the owner of the apple, '*you told me a story, you said you would take 
a small bite, but you took a hog bite." 

The children were soon out of sight, and we turned to our work, 
but the ideas awakened by the incident kept flitting before us. That 
night, while we were seated in the church enjoying the concert, the 
incident came back to us with great force, and we thought, well, this 
boy is but the representative of a large class found everywhere. And 
tonight, as we take up the pencil to meet the inexorable demand for 
ideas that must be formulated into words, and words that must be 
formed into sentences, and sentences that must grow into articles, it 
comes back to us once more. 

There is a large number of hog bite boys in the world. Boys who 
open their mouths pretty wide when they are taking a bite out of 
another boy's apple. We have seen many families where one boy 
wanted the most and the best of everything that came about the 
place. If a nest of kittens was found he must have the first choice, 
and he is sure to take the Maltese ; if a litter of pigs, he must take hia 
pick, and if there be one with an extra kink in its tail he gets it ; if a 
lot of little pups, why, he must have the one with the shaggy coat, 
white on its hind legs and the brown spots above its eyes; he must 
wear the best clothes, read the new book first, peruse the paper before 
his sister dares to glance at it, eat the largest apple, the ripest cherry, 
the sweetest berry, and be first in every case. We never found a 
name so expressive of what he really is as this term hog bite. 



154 OUR HOUR ALONE 

Then we have stood by the play ground of a school house and 
have seen the boy who must choose up or he won't play; he must be 
on such a side, associated with just such and such ones or nothing can 
be done ; he must rule the whole business or he will spoil all the fun. 
What is such a boy? Can you think of any more suitable or ap- 
propriate name for him than that of Hog Bite? 

Then we have noticed girls, too, who wanted to run everything; 
they must be consulted, deferred to, looked up to, and obeyed, or they 
are grouty, peevish, ugly, scowling, fretful, pouting and hateful as 
sin. Are they not exactly described by the term hog bite? 

But when we come to let our thoughts follow the subject we 
find that we have seen some men who acted largely on the hog bite 
principle. They work, and plan, and speculate, and contrive to over- 
reach every one with whom they have any dealings. They do not 
scruple to misstate, and misrepresent, and deceive, in order to get 
the best of the bargain. These men are suited to a dot when we apply 
to them this terse term, hog bite. 

And there are women, too, real good looking women, who act 
just as if they might be closely related to the hog bite family. They 
borrow and do not pay, or take care not to pay back so much, 
always grasping to get their share and a little more. They may not 
know it, but when they bite some one else's apple they leave a great 
gap in it, for they always take a hog bite. 

But it is not our intention to draw this subject out. "We refer 
to it because it teaches a valuable lesson. If you desire to know how 
large the hog bite family has grown, just go out into the busy ways 
of life and keep your eyes and ears open; you will soon discover a 
number of those who are members of it. They are found in the 
church, in the legal profession, in trade, in politics, in literature, in 
science, in all stations and conditions in life, and under all circum- 
stances they spoil the shape of your apple, if you allow them to bite 
it. 

Permit us to ask all boys and girls to avoid the practices of the 
hog bites. A young hog bite may be cured of the evil, but an old 
hog bite is hard to reclaim. A well defined sense of justice, a clear 
perception of right, a large degree of generosity must be natural, and 
need to be improved by every day practice, if we would be entirely 
free from the practices of the hog bites, and be able to prevent our 
mouth from opening too wide when we are offered a bite of some one 
else's apple. 

Mrs. Wally 

On the morning of October 26, 1898, we left Quincy at 6:20 
o'clock on the 0. K. C, & E. railroad. In a few minutes we were on 



OUR HOUR ALONE 166 



the fine new iron railroad bridge that spans the great Father of 
Waters at this point. The draw is near the west end, and our train 
was halted on the center of the bridge while the draw was opening 
to let a steamboat pass through on its way up the river. The boat 
was making slow headway against the current, and we were detained 
for some time. We were amply repaid for the detention, for while 
standing here we witnessed one of the finest sunrises that we have ever 
seen. The city of Quincy, the third largest in Illinois, is on the east 
bank of the river, and is built on the high bluff that overlooks the 
beautiful valley cleft by the mighty stream. It was a clear, bright, 
beautiful morning, coming after the abortive attempt at a blizzard that 
all will remember as coming on the 25th day of October, and in which 
the snow fall was so damp and heavy that the train on which we came 
from Galesburg to Quincy was obliged to leave Colchester on a side 
track, owing to the fact that the weight of snow had broken the tele- 
graph poles, and they were lying on the main track. The snow was 
still on the ground, and covered the streets of the city, and lay over 
the surrounding hill country, a glorious mantle of white, and when the 
sun came up in all his splendor, the view as seen from the center of 
the bridge was grand, and would have furnished inspiration for an 
artist. Our regret is that the divine touch that transfers nature's 
finest and most beautiful scenes to canvas is only given to a favored 
few and is not ours. We also regret that we do not feel equal to the 
task of making a pen picture of that magnificent sunrise as we saw it 
on that morning from the center of the Quincy bridge, with every 
window aglow, and the brilliant light gilding the domes and steeples 
of the city, and flashing along the ripples on the river. It is some satis- 
faction to know that many others have seen the sunrise from this 
same spot of vantage, and we feel sure that the scene is one of the 
cherished and 

"Beautiful pictures that hang on memory's wall." 

But this is rather a digression. It is not the sunrise that comes 
to us most vividly as a recollection of that early morning. As the 
draw swung to, the train slowly pulled to the west end of the bridge, 
and stopped at West Quincy, on the north side of the little depot build- 
ing. In a few minutes the train from Hannibal came to a standstill on 
the south side, and a few passengers came over hurriedly — they al- 
ways come that way — and took places in the car we occupied. One 
of them was an old lady dressed in rather plain, but neat, black, the 
lines on her face — that yet showed faint traces of an earlier beauty — 
indicated that care, or worry, or work, or all combined, had left their 
impress there. As she put her three or four packages — for she was a 
woman — down on the seat we noticed that her finger joints were large 
and that her hand indicated a life of drudgery. 



166 OUR HOUR ALONE 

Somehow we were not prepossessed in her favor, and our mental 
conclusion was that she was ignorant and no doubt disagreeable. It 
gave us no pleasure when she looked back, and seeing us — the wife 
was with us — she got up, took her bundles, and coming back took the 
seat directly in front of us. She spoke to us — and her voice was sweet 
and low — remarking on the beauty of the morning after the storm of 
the day before. She spoke of leaving Hannibal so early, and told us 
she was going to Durham, to spend the day with her daughter, that 
she lived on a farm 7 miles southwest of Durham and that her husband 
would meet her there the next day and take her home. She had been 
gone from home a month, having gone to Hannibal to visit the family 
of her son, his name being Joseph Wally, he being a fireman on the 
railroad — and here her voice became tremulous — and we noticed that 
tears were forcing their way over the dark lashes of her eyes, though 
she made a brave effort to force them back, and her voice was choked 
as she told us that while she was there her boy went out on his engine, 
there was an accident, the engine left the track, turned over, caught 
the fireman beneath its ponderous weight, crushing out his life, and 
cutting his body in two. Here she became silent for a little season, 
the intensity of her grief rendering her utterly unable to proceed on 
account of her feelings, and as we looked at her she was no longer the 
common-place old lady that we had seen enter the car a short time 
before, but one of earth's greatest heroines whom all might honor, and 
as we looked upon her tear-wet face, and noted the swaying of her 
grief racked body, we realized that she had been transfigured before us. 

Presently she resumed speaking. Her boy — for he was a boy to 
her mother heart, though almost 40 years old — was a noble fellow; 
he had been on the road 9 years ; she had always dreaded an accident 
and was ill at ease ; he went out that fatal morning full of life and 
hope and ambition; he was carried back ere night-fall a corpse. He 
was married and had four children, 3 girls and 1 boy, and his in- 
surance left them provided for. She had remained a short time after 
the funeral and was going home bearing her great grief. She was 
sixty-four, the mother of seven children, and this the first death in 
the family. She asked about our journey and hoped that we would 
have a pleasant visit at the home of our son. 

The train whistled, the brakeman came in and called out "Dur- 
ham!" The old lady gathered her bundles, bade us a cheery bood-bye 
and left the train. When she had gone it became evident to us that 
her story had touched us, and a moisture dimmed our vision on looking 
out to see if any one came to meet her. 

We had misjudged her. She was a toiler, and not rich; she had 
not the refinement of education, nor the polish of polite society, but in 



OUR HOUR ALONE 157 

that short time she had convinced us that she had the qualities of the 
true heroine. 

How prone we are to err in judging others if ignorant of the 
griefs that bear upon them; if we could but know the sorrows, deep, 
and bitter, and full, that have crushed their hearts, would not our 
better, tenderer nature come to their relief, and words of consolation 
flow from ready tongues, and make us quick to bring relief? 

This is a simple tale, no laurel crowned heroine to grace its telling, 
but it comes back to us in this, our hour alone, and if the recital but 
serves to rouse some sympathy for this fond mother whom death has 
robbed, it will not be in vain. 

Dear readers of the Banner, when in your happy homes, in daily 
page you read of train derailed and trainman killed, remember that 
in some home, conspicuous or obscure, some Mrs. Wally sorrows for 
her son. 

One Thanksgiving Day 

On Thanksgiving day in the year 1897 the head of one family was 
not feeling just right, being scarcely in rapport with the spirit of what 
should animate the American citizen on this glad national holiday. 
His business demanded his attention, and he was obliged to undergo 
the usual daily grind of labor. The demands on his purse had been 
many, and collections were slow — very slow. The fact was that though 
he had hoped that something would occur to replenish the pocket-book, 
the day opened, and he had not a cent of ready cash. The family were 
not destitute, but they were living as economically as ever they could, 
as thousands of other families were doing, and are now. His wife got 
up and made ready the morning meal, and she seemed to be blithe 
and cheery, but somehow he was painfully impressed with the idea 
that she was making an effort to appear joyous, and it did not add to 
his composure of mind. The family gathered about the table, the 
usual heart-felt "thanks" were repeated with bowed heads, the low 
hum of conversation began, and the repast ended. At the close the 
old Bible was brought out — as was the daily custom — a chapter read, 
and the father led the little flock in offering up the morning oblation. 
But there was more in his heart than was spoken at the altar; his 
was a simple, trusting, loving faith, and somehow he hoped God would 
work just a little miracle for him — is it not true that miracles are 
wrought for us daily? — for he knew it would be almost a miracle if 
he should be remembered that day by any one who owed him. Not 
but that there were many on his books who, if they had really known 
his circumstances, and how depressed, yes almost discouraged, he was, 
would have hastened to do an act of justice by settling at once; but 



168 OUR HOUR ALONE 

they did not think, and he was too proud to go to any of them and 
frankly tell them his need. 

The forenoon wore away, and he toiled on, growing nervous as 
the hands of the clock came together at the midday hour. As he put 
on his coat to go home there was a rebellious feeling in his heart, and 
he was startled to find the question presenting itself, "Is God so 
merciful, so loving, so kind, or has He forgotten me?" But he put 
aside these bitter thoughts, for he went back in memory to the teach- 
ings of a beloved father, and the prayers of a dear Christian mother, 
and he said, "no, no; God is good; it is I who do not understand." 

Still, as he walked along the street and saw those who were in- 
vited out to dinner, and those who were to entertain them, walking 
so briskly and with such light steps, and looked into their beaming 
faces, he felt the bitter thought striving for mastery, and wondered 
why his family should not share the joy of the day. 

As he opened the kitchen door the frown on his face relaxed, for 
it was evident that the good angel of the house — his dear wife — had 
not been repining, but doing. The table was set to the best advantage, 
the cloth was snowy white, the dishes burnished in brightness, the 
butter was yellow and sweet looking, the bread was light and nice, a 
crisp crusted cherry pie was tempting the appetite, and everything 
was so tidy and cheery that he forgot his moroseness, and was com- 
plimenting the angel, who blushed at the praise so lavishingly given, 
and he thought that after all there was much that he should feel 
thankful for. 

Some of the family had attended the little church and listened 
to the Thanksgiving sermon, but as it was discussed he could not help 
wondering if some of those worshipers had not forgotten that the 
day was one for doing, as well as praising. 

He went back to work feeling better satisfied — so far as he, him- 
self, was concerned — but still the fact that he had to deny so good a 
wife the pleasure she would have taken in having more to do with 
made him rather uncomfortable. 

As he took up the burden of the afternoon he thought, what good 
came of your prayers, and your effort to have faith, when the morning 
sacrifice went up? 

He started as the door creaked on its hinges, and looked around 
to meet the glance and receive the kindly greeting of one of his 
friends — a church member who had been over in the congregation 
giving thanks. He spoke a few cheering words, though the day was 
gloomy enough — a drizzle — and the room seemed to brighten up a 
little. Then he took out his pocket-book, opened it, took out some 
money and handed it to him remarking, "While it is not quite pay day 



OUR HOUR ALONE 159 

yet, I thought I would call and pay you." He spoke of the sermon 
of the morning, and as he opened the door to go out it seemed as if a 
burst of sunlight flooded the dingy little office, but it must have been 
an illusion, for on looking out he saw that a steady drizzle was still 
falling. 

There was a moisture in his eye as he went out to make some 
purchases that he would gladly have made some hours before, and 
when he got home that evening the bitterness was gone out of his 
heart, and joy was present in the household. 

That night he communed on his pillow, and there were things 
that he could not yet understand. His first conclusion was that the 
morning prayer, and the faith in which he asked God to enable him to 
make glad the hearts of his family, deserved the credit; then came 
the thought, does the man who called and left the money really know 
how glad he made other human hearts that day? May it not be true 
that God put into his heart to come, and thus wrought the little 
miracle? 

Dear readers of the Banner, this is no make believe sketch. It 
will be read by many who will recognize in it a past experience. It is 
only when we touch the everyday life of the reader that we secure 
confidence. Genius may touch heroic themes and win applause. But 
we will rest content if in an humbler sphere our mediocre pen touches 
the homely theme of those who dig, and delve, and toil, and live in 
humble homes. We give the sketch because we have a hope that 
when you read you may resolve that when another Thanksgiving 
comes, you may seek after the spirit of its observance. How much we 
might do if we only knew where help is needed? This man who — per- 
haps all unconscious — had brought sunshine into a home, no doubt felt 
in his heart that somehow it had been a pleasant Thanksgiving to him, 
for we cannot believe that he did not receive a blessing larger than he 
gave. It is this belief that makes us love the religion of Jesus. It 
comes down to touch the lives of those who are meeting the troubles, 
and toils, and cares of life, and it brings sunshine into the home. 

True Heroes 

Did you ever think where you would go to look for heroes and 
heroines, if you should be commissioned to find them? Of course, we 
all know that war is supposed to produce the heroes. And it is true 
that war developes and exhibits them. The man who can calmly and 
deliberately march up to the mouth of death-dealing guns, when he 
is conscious that every moment may be his last, certainly has in him 



k 



160 OUB HOUR ALONE 

the elements that constitute bravery, if not true heroism. But if we 
are to seek only here, the truest heroes will not be found. The 
trouble with the heroes of war is that much that is mistaken for 
heroism is but a rash, yea, an insane desire for fame. 

The woman who is able to meet disappointment, discouragement, 
poverty, neglect, want, sickness, scorn, contempt, ridicule, and yet 
continue to labor, hope, pray and strive for an inhuman husband and 
unthankful children, has a heroism that approaches the sublime. If 
this was but for a week, a month, a year, or even ten years, it might 
be suspected that hope gilded the gloomy clouds with the bright bow 
of promise; but when it continues until wrinkles destroy the beauty 
and freshness of youth, and silvery hair proclaims that but a short 
time remains for her to suffer, one cannot look upon her and not be 
struck with astonishment that she still goes bravely about her thank- 
less task. There are thousands of such women whose lives are literally 
wearing away under such adverse circumstances, and the only wonder 
is that they live at all. If we were to be sent out to find a heroine, 
we would go down to some hut, — pen would be a better word — lead 
out into the light and warmth of nature, one of those whose unkempt 
hair, haggard face, tattered clothing, emaciated body, and broken 
spirit pointed out as one who has toiled and striven for years, and 
we would point to her as one whose claims to heroism were infinitely 
beyond that of the boldest warrior and bravest martyr who ever lived 
or died. 

Or if you are not willing to look on this phase of human suffering, 
when squalid poverty and wretched woe stand out in such bold relief, 
you might seek out some one who has lost the inestimable boon of 
health, and who has for years suffered from some desperate, malignant 
disease that they know to be slow but incurable. Look upon the sharp 
features, the thin white hands, the slim neck, the hollow, sunken eyes, 
the wan, weary, hopeless expression of the countenance ; consider 
that for one, two, three, four, or, it may be, a dozen years, they have 
battled with death, terrible, dreaded, monstrous death, fighting him 
inch by inch, foot by foot, step by step, and you will realize that you 
are in the presence of one whose title to heroism is clear and un- 
mistakable. 

Stand in such a presence but for a few moments, and uncork 
the vials of sympathy to weep at the brief suffering you behold. Con- 
sider that where others are free from pain, this body is racked with 
torture; that while others are out in the bright, glad sunshine, this 
one is in a chamber dark and gloomy ; that while others are going out 
to wrestle with the great events of life, this one is not able to minister 
to his own wants; that all the varied and changing scenes that make 



OUR HOUR ALONE 161 



glad the heart of health is denied, and denied forever ; that you meet 
this one day after day, week after week, month after month and year 
after year, and hear no complaint, no words of pining, and you may 
begin to realize that you are again in the presence of one of the truest 
heroes that ever has lived, or will live. 

There are thousands of such heroes whose brows are not wreathed 
with laurels, and whose names are not seen on the pages of history. 
Thousands of them are sleeping in sequestered nooks, where no monu- 
ment is placed to voice, in cold marble, the merits of their lives. 

Ah ! it is easy to be a hero when the plaudits of millions are ring- 
ing in our ears. But to be calm, and hopeful, and patient, and con- 
tent, and cheerful, when the world seems to be against us and we are 
forgotten is a heroism grander, nobler, truer, better, sublimer than 
anything else in the range of human knowledge. 

And if this article but meets the eye of one of these despised 
but heroic souls, and causes a gleam of happiness to rest but for a 
moment on the barren waste of their lives, we will rejoice that we re- 
membered to seek such humble walks for the material for this, our 
Hour Alone. 

Christmas Musings 

More than eighteen hundred years ago the Star of Bethlehem 
glittered and glimmered over the "hill country of Judea." The angel 
choristers sang the glad anthem of "Peace on earth, good will to 
men." The morning star "sang together, and all the sons of God 
shouted for joy." 

We have often thought that we would like to visit Judea, and 
climb to the top of those historic hills, and sit there and meditate on 
the grandeur of the character of Him whose birth caused the wonderful 
star to shine, the morning stars to sing together, and all the sons of 
God to shout. 

How we would delight to look down into the quiet little city of 
Bethlehem, where in that far away time the infant Jesus was "sleep- 
ing in the manger, with Mary, his mother." Our imagination goes 
back to that time, and we peer — in fancy — into the features of the 
slumbering child. What possibilities are locked up in every sleeping 
infant? What a subject for study is here. We may well stand in 
solemn awe before this undeveloped man, for here may be a Nero or 
a Christ. What will the future be ? This infant has just come into the 
world. It may die ; it may live. It may be a god or a devil. 

No one has ever yet studied complex human nature from all its 
points of observation who has not sat down beside a sleeping babe, 



162 OUR HOUR ALONE 



and watched it for an hour, when none but God and they are near. 
As you look at its hands, do you wonder where and how they will toil? 
As you turn back the long dress and see the tiny feet, do you wonder 
where they will wander along the "thorny ways of life?" 

When the wise men came to worship, led by the star, did such 
thoughts crowd forward in their brain, and such speculations pre- 
sent themselves to their fancy? It may well be, for these were but 
men, and man has ever been much the same. 

As we read the history of those years we get only the results. 
The toil, the trial, the grief, the sorrow, the heart aches, the disappoint- 
ments that ante-date those results are not recorded. 

But we know that Judea was a conquered province. That it was 
tributary to Rome. That Herod ruled, and unscrupulous Publicans 
gathered in taxes, with all the unrelenting greed that is bred in the 
villian heart of him who is the tool of tyranny for gain. We know 
that thousands of God's humble poor were dreading the coming 
winter only a little less than they did the foreign masters who ruled 
them with a rod of iron. We know that human wants were not less 
than now, and human rapacity not an iota less cruel and exacting. It 
was but a few years after, when this child, then a wonderful preacher, 
said, "The poor have ye always with you." 

Nearly nineteen hundred years later, we are about to celebrate 
the birth of the child. But human wants are just as great, and 
human rapacity not one whit less exacting. The tax collector, mayhap 
a better type, but still a collector of tribute, is with us. Masters we 
have, though they be of our own country. And human suffering ap- 
peals to us just as strongly as it did to the simple peasants who then 
lived, loved, planned, strove, succeeded, failed, died, in the humble 
tenements that adorned the hillsides about Judea. 

The same discrepancies are yet visible, though we have the steam- 
boat, the railroad, the telegraph, the sewing machine, the telephone, 
the reaper, and a thousand other labor saving inventions ; and we yet 
find the bread winners struggling as they did when Mary held the 
infant Savior to her throbbing breast, looked down into his mild, 
blue eyes, and wondered what His lot in life would be. 

In our own country, tonight, as we join in the usual festivities of 
the times, there are more than three hundred thousand laborers out of 
employment, while twelve hundred thousand depend on them for food 
and shelter. Let us sympathize in their sorrows, and make some effort 
to emulate the example of that benign Savior whose ear listened to 
every story of suffering, and whose heart overflowed with love, not 
only for the good and the true, but for the sinful and the depraved 
as well. 



OUR HOU R ALONE 163 

Dedicated to Mrs. A. H. McKeighan 

"Your wedding ring wears thin, dear wife; Oh, summers not a few. 

Since I put it on your finger first, have passed o'er me and you; 

And, love, what changes we have seen, — what cares and pleasures too, — 

Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new." 

The devotion of a true wife is sublime. It is a part of her being 
— a flame kindled at the altar of God, and it never can be quenched, 
never can be annihilated. It is part of that divine essence that men 
know as soul, and it is as immortal as the being of Him who gave 
woman to be the companion of man. 

Not in the entire range of human thought has there been evolved 
an idea that has had such an influence on the life, the character, the 
plans, the purposes and the destiny of man as does this devotion that 
is shown by the wife to the man she has chosen out of all those whom 
she has known, to be her husband. Her devotion to him is grand, 
noble, true, wonderful and lasting. Anyone will pat you with fawn- 
ing complacency when you are successful ; the butterflies of friendship 
will flutter about the brilliant lamp of your prosperity, and scorch 
their gauzy wings ; but when the dark portentous clouds of adversity 
settle about you, and the howling, pitiless storm breaks about your 
defenseless head, not the flutter of their pinion is heard on the fierce, 
cruel, relentless blasts that are raging around you. The devoted wife 
is with you when the sun of success beams in lustre about you, rejoic- 
ing in your achievements, proud of what you have accomplished, and 
almost oblivious to the fact that she has been the significant figure in 
every problem, without which none of them could have been solved. 
And when adversity comes — as it always certainly will — she is by 
your side, calm, serene, trusting, hoping, planning, advising, helping. 
In that hour how you realize that 

"The weak are strong, the timid brave. 
For love puts on an angel's power, 
And faith grows mightier than the grave." 

Anyone will praise you when you do right. It is then that honied 
words, though every heart responds to flattery, even when it is known 
that the silly words are not only light and frivolous, but false as well, 
are not needed by you at all. 

But the true wife not only puts the seal of her approval on the 
right when you are right, but she is with you right or wrong. She 
may not approve of the wrong you do — in fact, she never does — but 
she is ready to excuse and condone. She may know that you are 
mistaken, but her love rises superior to your mistakes, your faults, 
your wrong doings, and has a value to you that nothing else on 
earth can have. 

Home, with all its hallowed influences, its cherished associations, 
its elevating refinement is the creation of her genius — or rather, may 



164 OUR HOUR ALONE 

we not say — the result of that devotion which the wife always has, and 
which rises superior to every circumstance, and compels results where 
— without her devotion — defeat and disaster would make life miser- 
able. 

It is to be regretted that so many men fail to appreciate the de- 
votion of a true and loving wife. It is almost as much to be deplored 
that more men get so interested in the battle of life as almost to forget 
the part she took in the strife in which they are so absorbed. It 
would be a sorry day for the cause of human progress were the wife 
ever to fall into the position where the actions of the thoughtless 
husband would seem to place her. 

It is small wonder that when Christ came into the world to bring 
back to a loving Heavenly Father those who had wandered so far 
from Him, that He first declared His divinity to the woman of 
Samaria. There is much of meaning in the announcement that woman 
was last at the cross and first at the sepulcher. She was the de- 
voted follower of the loving Master, and she has carried a like de- 
votion to her wifely duties, and her faith, that looked beyond the 
tomb where slept her crucified Lord, is strong enough to believe that 
some shining angel will come down to roll away the stone that closes 
the hopeless sepulcher where all but she honestly believe lie buried 
forever all that was good, and noble, and true in her husband; and if 
he has the strength to break the bands of mortal death, she will be the 
first to look down into the forsaken grave, and will go forth rejoicing, 
to tell others, the burden of her glad song being, *'He is not here, 
he is risen." 

The fore night is waning; outside the rain is falling in fitful 
splashes; I sit here in the bright glow of the lamp, in the kindly 
warmth of a cozy room, thankful for the devotion of a loving wife, 
and hopeful that the thoughts that have come to me in this Hour 
Alone may lead myself and others to better appreciate what we owe 
to those dear wives who have been so devoted to us under all circum- 
stances. 

"And O, when death shall come at last, to bid me to my rest, 
May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast; 
O, may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight of you, 
Of those fond eyes, — fond as they were when this old ring was new." 

Sadness and Mirth 

"Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear; 
Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier! 
As a gleam from a sea-bird's white wing shed, 
Crosses the storm in its path of dread; 
As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky — 
Sadness and mirth! so ye come and fly." 

Strange mystery that baffles our keenest analysis, that eludes our 

subtlest deduction, evades our every effort to explain, that ridicules 



ll 



OUR HOUR A LONE 166 

our philosophy, scoffs at our learning, laughs at our fears, and mocks 
our hopes, the mystery that in every life, and everywhere in life, sad- 
ness and mirth meet together. 

If there were no other evidence to show that man is not as he 
came from the Creative hand surely this fact that standing side by 
side, walking arm in arm, the shadow of the one falling upon the 
form of the other, mingling, commingling, ever near, never far apart, 
often together, or so nearly interlocked that one may seem both, or 
both appear as one, this meeting of sadness and mirth in all our lives, 
would be conclusive evidence that man is not the perfect man, as 
fashioned at the first. 

Degraded from a noble birthright, dwarfed from a moral perfec- 
tion that should always woo a smile, stunted in every noble attribute 
of the soul, man must have lost something of completeness, else would 
not these two, so radically different in every conceivable way, Sadness 
and Mirth, meet man so constantly, so continuously, so persistently, 
so frequently. 

So true is it that sadness and mirth divide between them the 
lives of every human being, that none will dispute the assertion — made 
long ago — that man is a bundle of smiles, a fount of tears. 

The infant in its cradle bed, with reason scarce awake, with sense 
of touch so incomplete, with distance yet unmeasured, with knowledge 
yet unused, is wreathed in smiles, or bathed in tears, because standing 
beside the crib where lies the tiny form, sadness and mirth, look in 
upon its earliest day of life, and move to tears or smiles. 

When older grown, the child, with fast expanding powers, in- 
tellect awake, reason in busy search, and knowledge gaining daily, is 
meeting day by day these two, and joy or sadness leaves its first 
impress, as mirth or sadness meets them on the way. 

And Youth — 0, wondrous youth! time of such aspirations high, 
with every power of mind so gifted and so strong, with such resolves 
for doing grander things, whose skies are all so clear, who have no 
winter in their year, why part those rosy lips in such sweet smiles? 
Why falls the darkling cloud on brow so fair? Is it because even in 
this busiest time of life, sadness and mirth have met you on the way ? 

In manhood's hours, so calm and so serene, when life has plans 
and purposes that seem of so much worth, when coveted success lies 
in such easy reach, why beams strong manhood's face with light, as 
if the sun streamed golden light through rifted summer cloud? Is it 
because of mirth that sudden met thee there? And why the sudden 
frown that fades this light to twilight gloom, to darkness dense an^ 
palpable as that which shrouded Egypt's land, when judgment sore 
was sent? Is it because when mirth had caused the smile, that sad- 
ness met thee, too, and changed the gayer mood? 



166 OUR HOUR ALONE 

And age, in which ambition's power loses its sway, when hope — 
seductive hope — no longer leads the way, when memory treacherous 
proves, when strength is gone, when death has lost the power to 
waken fear, as once it did in youth, when it has come so near that 
trembling hands have lifted up the mask and seen — not the dreaded 
enemy, but a very friend whose gentle touch will give us rest, even 
age has tears and smiles ; for these that peeped above our cradle bed — 
they — sadness and mirth have met us in decrepitude, and we respond 
in tears — in smiles. 

Sadness and Mirth! Ye meet us everywhere. You are in the 
chamber sacred to a birth, — sadness in pain — mirth in the joy a man is 
born into the world. 

Beside the altar where love in marriage is plighted, you stand, 
and smiles that lit the lovely face of bride, is sicklied o'er as sadness 
comes with thoughts of mother, home and friends. 

There never will be a parting of sadness and mirth, never in this 
world. They are inseparable. They meet us at birth, they go with 
us wherever we go, they will stand together beside our death-bed. 
But they part there. Into the better land together they cannot enter. 
When we leave this world sadness cannot go with us. All tears are 
dried, for true it is : 

"But there smiles a land, oh! ye troubled pair! 
Where ye have no part in the summer air. 
Far from the breathings of changeful skies, 
Over the sea and the grave it lies 
Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done. 
And joy reigns alone, like a lonely sun." 

Be Tolerant 

When we have a short time for serious reflection, we are often 
tempted to attempt giving a reason why so many people persist in 
trying to make themselves and all with whom they come in contact, 
as miserable as possible. Nothing can be more true than that it takes 
all kinds of persons to make up the number found in the world. And 
while thinking over this the curious fancy has struck us to inquire 
what kind of a world it would have to be in which no particular in- 
dividual would find fault with, or be dissatisfied with any other one 
in the world. And we were not a little amused by the queer fancy that 
all the people would have to be as near alike as "two peas," not only 
in one particular, but in all. Were this the case it would very likely 
be a monotonous humdrum kind of a world to live in, as no one would 
deny any proposition that any other one might see proper to advance. 
Imagine for a moment, that when some one asserted that Mr. A. was a 
pretty good kind of a man, that no person would say "Yes — but, well, 
I don't know; if all stories be true he lacks much of being all right." 



OUR HOUR ALONE 167 

Or if some one asserted that Mrs., was amiable and lovely, that a 
dozen of feminine noses wouldn't turn in the direction of the sky, 
while they would say, "Oh! For-the-land-sake ! Why you certainly do 
not know her. ' ' Wouldn 't it be just too funny to hear a man say that 
he "believed it would rain during the week," without his wife saying, 
"much you know about it, now isn't it." Wouldn't it savor of the mil- 
lennium to hear some one tell what a good christian F. was, without a 
dozen different ones chiming in all at once, "he lies; he steals; he 
swears; he is a hypocrite; he whips his wife; he starves his children; 
Pshaw ! talk of him going to Heaven ! ' ' 

No wonder such a curious fancy provokes a smile, and we do not 
think, come to study the matter a little, that we would fancy such a 
radical change all at once. It would be too great a contrast, and 
society would be too much like a duck pond, far too quiet to suit us. 

But on the other hand, we do get disgusted sometimes when we 
consider how universally people take delight, — or, perhaps, more 
properly, misery, — in imputing wrong motives to their fellows in 
regard to their actions and opinions. In fact, there appears to be so 
little of the spirit of toleration left sometimes, that we almost think 
that it has gone out of use entirely. It appears so natural for us to 
cultivate a spirit of fault finding, that we will forget a thousand kind, 
generous, self-sacrificing actions of a fellow mortal, in order that we 
harass and persecute him because he has fallen into one error. It 
matters not that he has spoken many kind words about us; that he 
has gone out of the way to do us a favor; has he not now expressed 
an opinion to which we cannot subscribe, and are we not determined 
to injure him if it be possible for us to do so? Intolerance, bigotry, 
self-conceit, these wrap man up in a little swaddling cloth that not 
only represses the natural freedom and vigor of the human mind, but 
envelopes the head and shuts out the vision as well as blunts the 
sensibilities of the soul and deprives him of that generosity that 
willingly accords to others every right that they themselves would 
enjoy. 

God's wisdom has given us a never ending variety. It is that 
which gives beauty to garden and forest; who would take pleasure 
in viewing the grove were every tree exactly like every other one? 
Who could in the flower garden find delight, were every blossom pre- 
cisely like every other? Then is it not fair to presume that God in- 
tended a variety in humanity? And does it not show weakness to be 
forever engaged in nothing better than finding fault with his arrange- 
ment? 

Politics and religion are the two great thoughts of man. No one 
is free from either of them. And it takes the most careful practice 
to enable us to be just, or even tolerant with those who differ with 
us on either. 



.168 OUR HOUR ALONE 

For ourselves we are glad to be able to say candidly and honestly, 
that all religions and all politics have in them something that we can 
commend, even while we feel that we cannot subscribe to their par- 
ticular forms. 

If these thoughts that have come to us in the solemn stillness of 
the midnight hour, will tend to make any reader, who perchance may 
peruse them, more tolerant of the feeling of others in the matter of 
either of these central questions, or both, then will we be glad that 
our task has not been a fruitless one at least. 



The Robin's Song 

It has been some time since we dropped into our accustomed atti- 
tude, and we have vainly striven to give an instructive turn to our 
thoughts ; but only one thing appears to come to us, and that is the 
thrill of gladness that we experienced one morning this week, when 
on awakening we heard the robin's well-known song, and knew that 
it was but the herald of coming spring, when nature will come forth 
to another of those resurrections that are as incomprehensible to us as 
the promised resurrection of the body from the grave. 

In the busy whirl of duties that come every day to the editor of a 
newspaper, we scarcely realized that four months had sped on the 
swift wings of time, since we stood by the grove and were inspired 
with reverence and awe by the crimson beauty that spoke to us in 
the simple language of nature that all her life functions were about 
to be suspended for a season. 

The migratory birds were then gathering in noisy bevies in those 
groves, preparatory to "wheeling their flight to a southern zone," and 
it was only when the glad music of these tiny warblers awoke us, as it 
were, to a knowledge of vanished months, that we really realized that 
nature's season of repose was drawing to a close and that in a short 
time her recuperated powers would again astonish us with the marvel- 
ous changes that a few short weeks may make. 

If we could suppose for a time, that none of us had ever witnessed 
the changes of the seasons, but that all of our knowledge in that direc- 
tion extended back no farther than the spring of last year, and then 
we were told that nature would again revive, that frozen streams re- 
leased from icy fetters would again dance onward toward the sea; 
that the sapless trunks whose bare and cheerless branches made such 
a sadening sound as the wintry blasts howled around them, would 
again put forth buds and leaves; that from their graves under the 
snow the flowers would again spring and blossom in all their former 
lovliness; that the creeping grass would again carpet the plains with 



OUR HOUR ALONE 169 

verdure; in short that tree, and herb, and plant, and flower should 
mingle and blend once more in every nook and corner of the land, 
and that teeming millions of insects would crawl over the earth or 
float in the tepid air, would we not find ourselves haunted by "the 
devil doubt," and ready to say, "It cannot be possible to reanimate 
this cold, barren, dead earth, so that it may appear as beautiful as 
before." 

But is this not similar to the position we occupy in regard to the 
human family? Our first knowledge of them is in the spring time of 
infancy and we watch with ever increasing wonder their expanding 
powers, as they attain from one degree to another of perfection ; the 
buds of promise swell and burst, revealing the flower touched with 
tints given by no earthly hand, and decked in colors that only the 
magic touch of a master's hand could have imparted; but these in 
turn yield to the mature summer when the flowers have fallen and the 
full fruits of mature manhood are weighing down every bough, and we 
rejoice in a bountiful harvest of thought; but the autumn cometh 
apace and the fruits begin to separate from the parent stem, and soon 
the chilling winds begin to disengage a leaf here, and another there, 
and they silently fall on the bosom of the earth ; then come the biting 
frosts, after which they are swept down in myriads and we stand in 
the middle of the winter, everywhere surrounded by the evidences of 
death, and as we have never witnessed the returning spring in human 
life; it is but slight wonder that we hesitate and doubt, and often 
refuse to believe that humanity will come forth from the grave, 
fresher, more vigorous, more beautiful than if the hand of decay had 
never touched it. 

But it was the song of the robin that came into our thoughts, as 
we dropped into our accustomed place ; yes, and the song of the 
robin has taught us a lesson in faith that we hope to profit by, not in 
the Sabbath hours of life only, but when its toils and cares press the 
closest upon us; and we ask those readers of the Banner who love 
to follow our random thoughts in this column, to listen to the song of 
of the robin, for you may hear it rising clear and shrill, from the 
very portals of the tomb of a buried world, speaking sweet words of 
comfort and hope to every stricken heart, and heralding the dawn of 
the eternal morn, the coming of the never-ending spring. 

What Shall We Read? 

There are a multitude of questions that might be asked daily — in 
fact, they are asked almost hourly — in regard to those things that 
most intimately concern our comfort and welfare in this life. What 
shall we eat? How shall we sleep? In what will we dress? What 



170 OUR HOUR ALONE 

shall we drink? And so on, to endless extent. These are called vital 
questions, because they concern all classes, from the highest to the 
lowest, and they demand an answer, and in such a manner that there 
can be no escape from the responsibilities that rest on the individual 
members of each class. 

But it is not of any of those that we desire to speak or think of 
during this hour, but we rather choose one that no doubt has often 
forced itself upon our readers, and, perchance, may have given them 
some uneasiness. That question is, what shall we read? We are as- 
suming, of course, that all intelligent people will read something. It 
will have to be assumed also that no small degree of judgment will 
be necessary in order to call out that which will be beneficial to us 
in our reading. This is necessary from the fact that so long as the 
freedom of the press remains unrestricted, and we hope that may be 
forever — there will be much printed that had better never be read at 
all. For you may rest sure of one fact and that is no neutral ground 
can be occupied by printed matter ; it will exert an influence either for 
good or evil ; and we have only to remember the amount of printed 
matter that falls from the press daily in order to see that its power 
for good or evil, or both, must be immense. Some prominent Eng- 
lish statesman is reported as saying, in substance, that you might have 
a corrupt house of lords, a corrupt commons and all branches of the 
government corrupt, but so long as there remained a free and inde- 
pendent press the liberties of the people were safe. This might, per- 
haps, be qualified by saying, if the press inculcated correct principles. 

Be this as it may, no one will dispute the power of the press; 
and it is here we wish to impress a thought, and that is that reading 
should be carefully selected. If we go out to gather vegetables for 
food for our children how careful we are to exclude those that we 
suspect of being poisonous. Pernicious reading poisons the mind and 
corrupts the moral nature, in fact poisons the fountain of life and 
so corrupts the whole stream. 

Then let parents see to it that no newspaper that does not have 
a pure, healthy moral tone has a place on their reading tables, and 
no book whose contents are not pure and right, find a place there. 
Let them be excluded as the vile toad or the venomous reptile. Let 
not the child be ruined while under your control by reading bad books 
or papers. 

And to the youth of our land we wish to say be careful what 
you read. Bad company will ruin you, but no sooner than bad read- 
ing will. 

We will perhaps refer to this subject again as it is of too much 
importance to be dismissed abruptly. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 171 

No good paper, periodical or book can be in your family with- 
out an influence for good being the result. No bad one should be 
tolerated any more than you would a plague. 

Parents, what are your children reading? Youths whose eyes 
fall on this copy of the Banner, what are you reading? 

Seen in Galesburg 

Another beautiful summer day has gone quietly out. Its light 
has :feded and grown dim, until long since darkness has settled over 
field and wood and village. "Sleep has weighed down the eyelids 
of a world." But here we find ourself in this quaint looking, but 
pleasant old kitchen, where so many times we have talked with our 
readers, — yes, and ofter speculated about them, wondering how they 
looked, and if they really felt the interest in us that we do in them — 
we know all of those readers are not as happy as we could wish them 
to be. The cares and duties and demands of life ; the trials and 
difficulties and dangers ; the griefs and sorrows and tears that are 
encountered daily forbid this. 

We could wish to think only happy thoughts, and write only on 
pleasant themes. But sometimes our duty would not be well done in 
that way. The sunshine is pleasant, but were it uninterrupted vegeta- 
tion would die. The storm is necessary, though not so pleasant; and 
sorrow — if of the right sort — will make life purer and better. 

But a tinge of regret comes to us tonight, as fancy free we let the 
pinions of thought have freedom to carry us where they will, when 
we think that in the most beautiful of our cities there are places — • 
entirely devoted to the manufacture of misery for otherwise happy 
households. 

Business called us to Galesburg a few days ago. Nature has done 
much for her, and art has combined to form an almost ideal spot. 
Schools, seminaries, colleges and churches are provided in abundance. 
Three newspapers are there working with untiring zeal to build up the 
town and make her people happy. She has temperance and other 
societies, all anxious to build up her good name. But while her streets 
were crowded with noble looking men and beautiful women, and we 
were wondering if all were not happy, a hideous noise jarred on our 
nerves, and, on inquiry, we found that it emanated from a licensed 
saloon. We stopped to look in at the door. A maudlin band made — 
not music, for music could not live there — but a noise. Perhaps near 
a hundred men were standing before the bar, grasping in shaky hands 
glasses filled with devil brewed wine, while they drank and gesticulated 
in maudlin idiocy. We watched the stream going in and out, and we 
saw the old gray haired father, the husband, in the strength of his 



172 OUR HOUR ALONE 



manhood, the young man of fair promise, and, Alas! Alas! The 
stripling, the mere boy, whose judgment is not yet mature, the pride of 
a fond mother, into whose loving heart the iron is about to enter. 
And we said, can it be possible that this is Galesburg, the pride of 
Knox County, the city of schools and churches, and is this traffic legal- 
ized and made respectable by law? 

Then we looked at the objects who dealt out this poison to man, 
and we were sure that delusions exist, for they had the semblance of 
men. But certainly no man with a soul, a thinking, reasoning being, 
would thus put damnation to the lips of his fellow men for a little 
paltry sum of money. In the deepest labyrinths of the lost and 
damned, when eternity's years are rolling on, and on, these carica- 
tures on humanity would suffer did they possess a soul. God pity 
you, poor, deluded, mean and vile apologies for human forms. 

Then as we went up the street we met temporary idiots, mutter- 
ing incoherently, and gibbering in total oblivion while sense had, for 
the time, departed. 

"While we are sitting here tonight and the cricket is chirruping its 
merry songs, and the stars look down on the glad earth, and angels 
are looking earthward, in those traps of vice and sin the boys of some 
of our readers may be learning to walk the downward road. 

But as we exchange a good night let us life up a silent petition to 
Him whose eye never slumbers nor sleeps that He may put it into the 
hearts of the voters in Galesburg to rid their fair town of this foul 
blot. 

A Sad Burial 

There are some incidents so sad and pathetic that they are 
treasured in the heart as almost too sacred for recital. The advent of 
the death angel, come in what form it may, or under whatever cir- 
cumstances, is a dreaded event. It seems that in the dread presence of 
the last enemy, human consolation is inadequate to offer any relief. But 
human sympathy is a great relief when we are permitted to meet 
those losses, surrounded by those who we know share our sorrows and 
feel for our desolate condition. 

There is something so abhorrent to us in the very idea of death. 
That such a total and mysterious change should come over the human 
form, is, to us, not only repugnant, but terrible. But even in death 
there are mitigating circumstances, that seem to reconcile us to the 
great bereavement; while, on the other hand, there are circumstances 
that seem to burn the picture of a death scene so indelibly on our 
minds, that the main points will never fade, so long as memory is 
faithful to her trust. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 178 

We remember one such death scene. It was a child, a mere in- 
fant. We do not even remember the name, for the mother was only 
thrown in our company years ago, while on a journey, and we were 
but a boy — perhaps that is one reason it made such a lasting impres- 
sion — and had no idea that our pen would ever narrate the sad little 
episode for the readers of a paper whose editor we now are. 

It was in 1849, the writer, in company with his father's family 
and a favorite uncle, James Torrens, now of Parmington, left New 
Jersey for the then comparatively new State of Illinois. It was a 
journey that required three weeks at that early period. 

When we embarked on the Pennsylvania canal, we found among 
the passengers a woman whose speech showed her English birth, ac- 
companied by her child. Her husband had preceded her to America, 
and was in one of the western States, and had sent for her to join 
him. She had passed through a long sea voyage, and now found 
herself without even an acquaintance on the boat, with the child 
dangerously sick. Those who have a recollection of travel by the 
canal boats know that it was impossible to give it that care and atten- 
tion that its condition demanded. 

We had passed the first stage of the canal, and were on "the 
inclined plains," and the child was, to all appearances, dying, when 
a sudden bump of the locomotive gave the trucks a sudden shock, 
and the child started up on its hands and knees and looked wildly 
around. It lingered until we were again on the western end of the 
canal. It was in the latter part of March, or perhaps the first part of 
April when it died. I do not remember in all my life so sad a scene as 
that poor, forlorn, strange English mother, sitting in such a situation, 
holding the hand of her dead infant. 

It was one of those peculiar days that come in the early spring; 
fitful showers of snow would obscure the vision for a few minutes and 
then clear off, while the wind was a very gale, in its fury. The boat 
was made fast at the base of one of the Alleghenys, it being too 
boisterous to proceed, and the child was to be buried. If we remember 
rightly it was Uncle Torrens and the mate of the boat who started over 
the mountain, and after a long absence returned with a rough board, 
and some tools to dig a grave. Mr. Torrens made a rough coffin, a 
grave was dug at the foot of the mountain, kind hands prepared the 
little emaciated body, and it was consigned to the earth. But who 
can imagine the feelings of that poor emigrant mother as she laid her 
first born, and only treasure in such a casket? Afterward the wind 
abated ; the boat was loosened from her moorings, and we were under 
way again. At Pittsburg we parted from the mother, but a thousand 
times that saddest and most solemn funeral that we have ever witnessed 
will come back to us, making a fresh demand on our sympathy. 



174 OUR HOUR ALONE 



Mr. Torrens has done many acts of disinterested kindness, but 
none of them, we think, will call down a mother's blessing, as his 
efforts to give a christian burial to that dead babe. 

Years have passed, and many sorrows have fallen to our lot, but 
the remembrance of none of them sends such a sudden chill to gay 
thoughts as when that scene comes up before us. We never heard 
of the mother after, nor do we know her fate, but there, at the foot 
of a stately mountain, is a tiny mound that will remain closed until 
the Arch Angel's trumpet shall call the sleeping dead. 

Reader, you have the rude sketch of what might form the subject 
for a grand picture, did the proper artist portray the subject. 

The Sorrows of a Day 

The fleeting hours, running on so swiftly, have again brought 
the time when we must shut ourselves in from the busy turmoils, 
cares and strifes of the bustling business world, and, casting our tiny 
net into the boundless sea of thought, catch something that may benefit 
those for whom we write. 

To us, there is something mysterious about the silence of night. 
As nature stops to rest — or may we say sleeps for a season — it fills 
us with awe, and in the dim, gathering shadows, it seems we catch an 
inspiration impossible to be obtained while the noise of active life, and 
the hum of busy industry is sounding in our ears. To our mind there 
is something beyond the grand — it reaches the sublime — in the solemn 
stillness that settles over the world when the sun has gone down, and 
the stars — heaven's beautiful and radiant lamps — are twinkling in 
myriads over the blue expanse above. When the birds have ceased 
their twitter, and the beasts have sought their wonted repose, and 
weary men and exhausted women have laid aside the grievous bur- 
den of labor, too heavy by far for many of those who are frail and 
weak, and are forgetting the ills they have in heaven-sent slumber; 
as we listen to the song of the katydid, the chirrup of the cricket, the 
boding of the doleful owl, or the shrill voice of the night hawk, we 
seem to be divorced from the tedium of toil's endless treadmill, and all 
the faculties of the mind expanding, reach out to the grand, the mys- 
terious, the beautiful in nature. 

As we sit here tonight, in the stillness of the midnight hour with 
almost all those around us wrapt in that mock death called sleep, we 
find hundreds of different avenues opening to our fancy, each inviting 
us to walk there for an hour, and each offering some peculiar induce- 
ment to win us there. But as we let thought seek her own chosen 
way in these silent hours, we find it yielding to the first great law of 
thought, that it is not controlled by law; and as our stubborn fancy 



OUR HOUR ALONE 176 

seems determined to return to the same spot at each attempt to force 
it into other paths, we here let fancy spread her wings, and let 
imagination rove where'er it will. 

But lest too much chaff be found to cumber the golden grain our 
garnered sheaf should bring to our dear readers, we will ask this 
question : Did you ever think how serious a thing is life ? A tragedy. 
A farce. Half comic, wholly sad. There are two standpoints from 
which we look back on a dead day. One gives us a joyful glimpse 
of life. The other gives us a tearful view of death. Perhaps in some 
more favored hour we may occupy the former standpoint and view 
the joyous scenes of life that but one day brings forth. 

But can it harm us now to linger here while the day dies and 
let our thoughts go back to sorrows that were born since this day 
began. 

Away down in the bowels of the earth, this morning, a band 
of brave miners were toiling for bread for those whose love made the 
task a task of love. A careless uncovered light, a deafening noise, a 
wild alarm, the hurrying feet of women and children toward the 
pit; a desperate fight for the dead bodies, and they are lying in a 
row, the silent, white faces turning towards the heavens, as though 
looking after the freed spirit. In twenty humble homes a corpse is 
watched even while our pen traces these lines. A thousand crushed 
and bleeding hearts appeal to poor human sympathy for comfort. 

The roar of a flying train is stopped. The treacherous bridge has 
given way. Down in the abyss is a mass of splintered wood and 
twisted iron. On the sward are the dead, the dying and the wounded. 
Ten, twenty, thirty are already dead and hundreds mourn, who when 
the day but dawned were glad, 

A stately ship, a stormy sea, an hour or two of suspense worse 
than death, and all is over. The hungry and remorseless sea has 
swallowed up hundreds of loved friends and the telegraph flashed 
sorrow to many saddened homes. 

The startling cry of fire; the building swathed in flames; the 
sickening stench of roasting flesh, and sorrow enters homes hitherto 
untouched by its blight. 

At noon a company of bathers sought the river's brink; in a 
moment one has gone down, none know how, and tonight the noble 
boy is costumed for the grave — and — well, Ah me ! 

'Tis morn. He seeks the cup, and drinks, and drinks again. He 
tries to board the moving train. He falls, is crushed. The mangled 
body is here, wept over by a heartbroken wife. 



176 OUR HOUR ALONE 

The treacherous well has caved, and one has found a living tomb. 
And an aged mother weeps because her first born has perished. 

The swiftly whirling stone has burst; a corpse, an inquest, and a 
desolate home. 

The lightning has fallen, and the strong man is in eternity in a 
moment ; but friends mourn and will not be comforted. 

The mails are arriving. The distribution is impatiently awaited. 
The letters are opened. Tears are falling. Family ties are broken. 
The saddest news has come. 

The telegraph has kept up its busy click all day. To one here 
and another there comes these brief but dreaded messages: "Come 
at once, all hope is gone;" "He is dying;" "Fell from a scaffold, no 
hope;" "Father died at one;" "Mother is dead. Come;" "John is 
dying;" "Mary is sinking." Into hundreds and thousands of homes 
just such messages have found their way today. Yes, it is true. 
Accident, Suicide, Murder, Disease, Death. It prevades every spot 
and disputes the path with life. 

Can it be that while we have been busy with the cares of life, 
that such a record has been made for others? 

The picture is not overdrawn; is not even complete. No. There 
are a thousand phases of sorrow compared to which death would be 
joy. But we will not enumerate them. It would not perhaps be best. 
In the broad glare of the bright sun, if you read these you may not 
catch our feeling. But let night come. Let midnight come. Shut 
yourself out from the gay world — that laughs o'er yawning graves — 
and then try to grasp the record of but one single day, and you will 
realize that: "Man was made to mourn." 

But have I been dreaming, or is it reality? I see a broad ex- 
panse. 'Tis dotted o'er with graves — little graves. The mounds of 
earth are fresh. All nearly of a size. In thousands of homes tonight 
there is bitter mourning for idols who have turned to clay. Mothers 
are starting from troubled, fretful sleep, to reach out hands for forms 
that are sleeping the last, long sleep. God grant that none of the 
Banner readers mourn over one of these tiny mounds that have been 
heaped up today. 

Growing Old 

It has been some time since we sat here penning the last article 
for this part of our paper. It was just after the schools had got into 
working order for the present school year, and we felt anxious to say 
something and to say it at the right time and in the right way; but 



OUR HOUR ALONE 177 

one week after another kept slipping away, and we were obliged to 
give our coveted space to others, until last week; but we determined 
to let the cogitations of that hour appear with the rest, and so we 
published them, although perhaps a little old. How soon things grow 
old. Eternal change ! How doth thy stealthy tread transform the most 
familiar objects, and make them appear unto our vision as though 
unknown. 

It would be useless now to attempt to divert our thoughts into 
any other channel, for, as we let idle pen rest listlessly on the paper, 
and try to get into the proper frame of mind to write useful thoughts, 
everything seems to fade out and become dim and indistinct except 
this. 

Growing old ! Growing old ! ! At such times we mostly find, when 
careful search is made, that some incident or scene has impressed itself 
upon our mind with more than usual force ; and we suppose we owe the 
feelings of this silent hour to the fact that while we were attending 
the Fulton county fair, last week, we met so many that we had not 
seen for some time, and this thought came up very distinctly as each 
additional face found a picture of what it used to be in the gallery of 
memory. 

As we approach the east end of Floral Hall, a neatly dressed and 
elegant lady steps out and extends a welcome hand; we notice in a 
moment that it is Mrs. R., she whom we knew eighteen years ago as 
Miss M., at the time when we were teaching in the neighborhood of 
Canton, and were boarding with her parents. As we pass the usual 
greetings and make the inquiries that always will crowd up we notice 
that Mrs. R. has changed ; and we can scarcely realize that the fine 
matronly woman with whom we are conversing, was once the beauti- 
ful and fascinating young lady who shed such a brightness over the 
usually quiet old homestead. Light hearted, vivacious, free from 
care, the idol of her parents and the center of attraction in every 
social gathering, it seemed that to awake her from such a dream of 
bliss were all too wanton. But a noble boy — for he was but that in 
years, though full of manly vigor and noble purposes — wooed and won 
her. There was a wedding feast at the old place, and they went out 
to battle with the world. And this is that girl — a girl no longer — as 
we realize when she introduces a girl nearly as tall as herself as "my 
daughter." Growing old, we thought, but growing more interesting. 
The blushing glow of girlhood exchanged for the sober cast of riper 
age. And we could not decide — we found it impossible to do so — 
whether we could admire most the maid or the matron. We found 
her husband, Mr. R., at the southeast corner of the Hall tying a blue 
ribbon on some article whose merits he had just passed upon. As he 
gave us his peculiar hearty hand shake and cordial greeting, and his 



178 OUR HOUR ALONE 

rippling laugh floated out on the balmy air, we thought, well, certainly 
he is not growing old. But when we looked at him we found that he, too, 
was changing. But is it really growing old? Perhaps it is ; but does the 
heart grow old ? We doubt it ; for we know that the deepening shadows 
of years will never shrivel up the generous impulses of the heart that 
make the friendship of such people valuable. 

Here at the west end of the hall we meet Mrs. C, of Fairview, 
followed by two of the sweetest of children; for all the world an- 
other edition of what she was when first under our charge. She, too, 
is changed, growing older ; but her greeting is as fresh as ever. 

Here by the amphitheatre we met a fine, hearty looking young man. 
He holds out his hand, and smiles as he watches our puzzled expression. 
"What is your name?" we ask. He responds, "you ought to know 
me; I went to school to you; my name is Charles B." We tried to 
realize what ailed him, and could only say growing old; for we could 
remember the neatly clad and careful little boy with the large check- 
ered apron over a comfortable suit, but can this be him? Yes, he 
looks like the older boys. He, too, is growing old. 

And thus we were meeting them all day. Those who were older 
then, now seeking the quiet corner ; those who were youths, now giving 
and taking the premiums; and those who were then babes, just enter- 
ing the years of manhood and womanhood. 

It seems so strange ; but two decades, and what changes. Many 
of those whom we then knew have long been sleeping the last long 
sleep ; many are scattered, while those who greet us with the old 
familiar smile are all growing old. 

We go to the glass and find that time is placing silver threads in 
our hair, and wrinkles on our faces ; and we feel that we are growing 
old also ; unawares, as it were, but surely growing old. 

And the day is growing old, too. The clock is nearing twelve, 
and we must call back our wandering thoughts, and bid the Banner 
readers good night, hoping that while none of them can expect to 
escape the withering touch of age, yet that their hearts embalmed in 
living virtue may still be new and young. 

Night 

"Night is the time to weep, 
To wet with unseen tears 
The graves of memory, where sleep 
The hopes of other years." 

The beautiful, the wonderful, the mysterious night! How it 
comes with visions of joy and pleasure to the tinseled and painted 



OUR HOUR ALONE 179 

and utterly heartless devotees of pleasure, who worship at no shrine 
where music does not lure, and where flying feet do not patter in 
time to its witching strains! 

How it comes with anticipations of gladness to wife and child, 
who peer out of crimson curtained windows, eager, expectant, anxious 
to welcome husband and father as he returns to seek under the 
blessed roof of home that something that heart has yearned for through 
all the long, busy, hurrying, exacting and relentless hours of the day 
in which great concerns claimed his attention, and momentous business 
calculations harassed his strained and distracted mind! 

How it comes with its chill and damp and biting blasts to the 
houseless poor whose want and misery will be but the keener felt, 
and whose emaciated bodies, thin-clad and shivering, cower over the 
mockery of a blaze, and then crawl into beds cold, cheerless, uncom- 
fortable, to sleep? Ah, no! To suffer and speculate on that great 
problem of life, why some are rich and warm, while they are poor 
and cold. Nor can they hope to solve the problem, for have not wise 
philosophers, men of science, clad in rich, warm robes, sitting in 
cushioned divan, with mellow light of brilliant chandeliers gloating 
the wide apartment and falling with softening tints upon the paper 
where his deep thoughts are traced, failed to solve it? And how shall 
this poor wretch in hovel dark and cold, with hunger gnawing at his 
vitals and hope so nearly gone within his heart that doubt comes in 
disputing it is dead, hope to solve it? Neither of them does; it never 
has been touched by human knowledge, and it will not be, but while 
he speculates the cheerless hours go by, and nearer comes the hour 
when welcome sun shall bring him light and some degree of warmth, 
if hunger's voice should not be stilled, nor any outward sign of joy 
show on a face so wan, so emaciated, so expressionless that inward 
movings of the soul no longer find a record there. 

How it comes with dread to those upon whose cheek the rose of 
health has perished and faded, and who will count the weary hours 
of pain and restlessness that lie between them and the rosy morn 
whose glowing tints will mark another day! 

How it comes with mingled emotions to the young mother on 
whose breast lies the soft cheek of the infant whose advent has 
awakened that mother-love that is immortal. 

HJow it comes with conflicting emotions to the wife who has sat 
up in worry and suspense to welcome her husband, and finds an un- 
steady step and thick voice to tell her that her dream of bliss has had 
a sad awakening! 

How it comes to the fond mother as she lies tossing on a sleepless 
pillow, distracted because her boy is not yet in for slumber, though 
she has counted the hours until it is now long past midnight! If 



180 OUR HOUR ALONE 

there be one hour of supreme bitterness for the maternal heart it is 
that one in which the mother first admits a doubt in regard to the 
path in which the feet of her idolized son are entering. 

Night! In which good men sleep, and happy homes are angel 
guarded. Night ! In which the boy is lured to ruin under the devilish 
guise of pleasure. Night! In which the fair flower of virtue is 
scorched and withered in the lascivious heat of wine-inflamed passion, 
that leaves life a dreary waste, heaven a far away impossibility, the 
cold and cheerless grave a welcome place in which to hide dishonor, 
and hell a place not longer to be avoided. 

Night! In which the brood of criminals crawl out to prey on 
what they find. The petty thief sneaks out to pilfer and the bolder 
burglar to blow the safe, and the highwayman seeks the belated one 
and chills the very marrow in his bones by the demand for what of 
value he may have. 

Night! In which the gambler, too lazy to work, too indolent to 
beg, too cowardly to steal, sits around the board high heaped with 
glittering gold, and drinks and cheats and swears the exciting, feverish 
hours away. 

Night ! In which the murderer stalks forth to seek his unsuspect- 
ing victim. He crouches in the shadows of the streets, seeks the 
saloon to blunt his conscience in the fumes of rum and rouse his devil 
courage by the help of drink, until he loses all of human that was his 
by birth, and is a demon fit for devilish deeds of blood at whose very 
recital honest men will quake when the next day is born. See him as 
he slips away with cat-like tread and cunning born of much experience 
in the ways of sin ; he finds the house all dark and silent ; he springs 
the shutter so deftly that no hinge has creaked to warn his victim; 
the sash is raised ; he cautiously enters ; he slips without a sound along 
the halls and passageways, climbs up the tortuous stairs, springs back 
the lock that bars him from his victim, enters the room, deals with his 
hand the fatal blow that satiates revenge, or clears the path for 
robbery, and the victim passes from the mockery of death to its 
reality. 

Night ! Storm-swept and boisterous, wind-tossed and awful. With 
crash of toppling tower and turret, and sound of falling trees up- 
rooted by the pitiless gusts that strip the forests, level the cities, lash 
the waves to madness, and wake the slumbering echoes in the gorges 
deep. 

Night! With the mellow moonlight flooding all the landscape 
and casting shadows weird, fantastic, grotesque and wonderful. The 
tall and stately pines stand silent on the hills; the mountains reveal 
their distant summits, standing out in bold relief against the sky ; day 



OUR HOUR ALONE 181 

seems but to have put on a fairer tint of loveliness, and Luna reigns 
as queen where but an hour ago the sun was king. 

Night! Moonless, cloudless, calm, serene and quiet. A million 
stars are sparkling in the concave of the skies. The milk maiden's 
path trails in a luminous line from horizon to zenith, and from zenith 
to horizon. These stars are silent sentinels watching above a world. 
For ages they have seen the struggles, the triumphs, the failures of 
humankind; nations have come and gone, dynasties have been estab- 
lished and perished, generations have been born and died, continents 
have risen above the waves and sunk beneath them, the hand of time 
has made the very mountain tops heavy, and passing centuries have 
written their records in the flinty albums of the rocks, and yet these 
stars have glittered over all just as they do tonight. They seem to 
us eternal, and we wonder, as we gaze up to them, how they can 
shine so calmly on palace and hovel, on poverty and wealth, on joy 
and sorrow, on happiness and misery, on virtue and vice, on love and 
hate, on generosity and selfishness, on deeds of charity and deeds of 
crime, on birth and life and death. How small we are as we stand 
and look upward to where they shine ! How little do we really know. 
Tonight as we record these random thoughts, these stars are looking 
down in silent grandeur on the oft-repeated comedy and tragedy of 
life. 

We are the players now ; the curtain soon will drop ; death stands 
to ring it down ; put out the lights and bill us for another world. 

Mother ! Home ! Heaven I 

Mother! The first face we see to recollect, the name we never 
can forget. It is one of the sweetest names ever spoken ; it is the holiest 
human name that ever has been sounded by the lips. Mother! Who 
caught the first smile that played on infant lips ; who saw the first 
gleam of intelligence that played on the face of babyhood; whose 
soothing voice stirred the sound waves of air that broke on the 
tympanum of the infantile ear; whose eyes were sleepless when sick- 
ness was the lot of tender years ; whose hand guided our first tottering 
steps ; whose wisdom nullified our childish ignorance ; whose experience 
came to assist the doubtful hesitancy of our unskilled lives ; whose 
restraining hand held us in those impulsive moments when impetuosity 
of youth would have carried us beyond the limits of reason and made 
us do that which would have caused shame and regret. Mother ! To 
whom we came in all our difficulties, all our sorrows, all our sadness, 
all our disappointments, all our trials, all our failures. Mother! 
whose stock of patience was never exhausted ; whose assiduous watch- 
fulness never grew weary; whose helping hand was ever extended; 
whose forgiveness came unasked ; whose love was pure, sweet, strong, 



182 OUR HOUR ALONE 

enduring. Mother ! Who could seem not to see our imperfections, and 
who was the first to note the good traits — if we had any — or supply 
them if they were entirely lacking. Mother! She who caused us to 
kneel at her knee and taught us to say, "Our Father, who art in 
heaven;" who read to us those Bible stories; who instilled into our 
young hearts that reverence for God that all the sophistry of the 
infidel can never eradicate. Mother! Whose pure life, self denial, 
sacrifices, and devotion to principle was our guide in youth, our in- 
spiration in manhood, and our veneration in old age. Mother! The 
first name in a blessed trinity of names. 

Home ! The sweetest word but one. Home ! Where our infant 
wants were supplied ; where our first impressions were formed ; where 
our first associations put their stamp on the plastic mind. Home ! 
With its hallowed recollections, its pure joys, its blessed privileges, its 
sweet enjoyments. Home! Where father and mother were, where 
brothers and sisters met. Yes, home! With its altars where our 
fathers prayed, where mother sang her sweetest lullabys, where a 
brother's unselfish admonitions were given, where a sister's pleadings 
for a discontinuance of evil habits were so earnest. Home ! Where 
all our best impulses came ; where our first friendships were formed — 
and alas! where the first links in that golden chain were broken. 
Home ! Where ambition first awoke, and curiosity began that investi- 
gation which was to give us all our knowledge of the world. Home ! 
The holiest place on earth, the dearest, the best, the first place we 
remember, and whose loved scenes will be lost only when the mists 
of death close around us, shutting out from us everything that is of 
the earth earthly. Mother! Home! Twin jewels that sparkle the 
brightest in the casket of language, diadems whose lustre will never 
grow dim. 

Heaven! Perfect rest; perfect happiness; perfect love; perfect 
obedience ; freedom from sin, from pain, from sorrow, from sickness. 
No fear in heaven; no anxiety, no disappointments, no partings. 
Heaven ! The realization of all the best, and purest, and loveliest aspir- 
ations of the sanctified heart. An endless day, a continuous summer, an 
eternity with perfection written in living characters everywhere. 
Heaven! A blessed gathering, a meeting with the father, the mother, 
the brother, the sister, the wife, the child, the friend we lost on 
earth, and whose departure left our hearts so sad, so desolate, so 
crushed that we doubted if even hope — witching siren — could ever 
again tempt us to smile. God will be there; the blessed Savior will 
be there ; the angels will circle the throne and cast their crowns in 
glittering shower at His feet ; the saints, made perfect through suffer-, 
will be there ; the righteous will be there ; that innumerable company, 
whom no man can number, who have washed their robes in the blood 



OUR HOUR ALONE 183 

of the lamb of God will be there. Heaven will be the full, perfect 
fruition of every hope. 

Mother! Home! Heaven! A trinity of words, the dearest, the 
sweetest, the best: 

"There are three words that sweetly blend. 
That on the heart are graven; 
A precious, soothing balm they lend — 
They're mother, home and heaven! 

They twine a wreath of beauteous flowers. 

Which, placed on memory's urn, 
Will e'en the longest, gloomiest hours 

To golden sunlight turn! 

They form a chain whose every link 

Is free from base alloy; 
A stream where whosoever drinks 

Will find refreshing joy! 

They build an altar where each day 

Love's offering is renewed; 
And peace illumes with genial ray 

Life's darkened solitude! 

If from our side the first has fled. 

And home be but a name, 
Let's strive the narrow path to tread. 

That we the last may gain!" 

Overworked; Underfed 

As we catch the opportunity to indulge in a quiet hour, we find 
our thoughts getting fixed on the great number in the world, who, in 
spite of the hardest toil, and the strictest economy, find it difficult to 
get along. 

This great multitude is never free from the apprehension that the 
grim, gaunt, terrible wolf of hunger will, sooner or later, enter their 
doors. 

Many of these keep up a cheerful exterior, and hide from even 
their nearest and most valued friends the pinching that must be re- 
sorted to in order to seem to be in moderate circumstances. 

We do not refer to the still larger class who spend their hard 
earnings for tobacco and whisky; but to those who deny themselves 
everything in order to clothe and feed their families. 

It would seem to be a fair proposition that God intended that 
man should live — not starve — by the sweat of his brow. The fair 
face of nature would indicate this. The genial sun, the favoring 



184 OUR HOUR ALONE 

breezes, the seasonable showers, the adaptability of climate, and, in 
fact, everything points to the conclusion that God intended that all 
men should be able to live by toil, and, of course, that no drones, in 
the human hive, were intended in the Divine economy. 

But certainly there has been as great a change in this respect, 
as in the fact that God created man holy, and that man fell by sinning 
against God. 

The selfish attribute of man — not to be spoken against when kept 
in proper bounds — has so changed what was plainly intended, that we 
find a comparative few able to live in idle luxury, while the multitude 
must dig, and delve, and almost starve. 

We do not intend to follow out the causes elaborately, nor to 
spend much time in pointing out the remedy. The keen eye of distress 
is even now resting on the class laws that have marred man's happy 
lot; and the time is not far distant when united action will apply a 
remedy that is already being pointed out. 

But our thought was, that while you are anxious and concerned, 
and think that you are the only one in trouble, the fact is there are 
hundreds and thousands more who are having just your experience. 

Right in the midst of a "boom," and in Heaven gifted America, 
hundreds of toil worn, anxious fathers eat scanty fare, and snatch a 
fitful rest; hundreds of overtasked, careworn mothers trouble about 
the things of the tomorrow, and are planning, in hours that ought to 
be sacred to soothing slumber, as to how the family is to be provided 
for. 

Man seems all too willing to let his fellow man rob him of God 
given rights, and give him in their place man invented wrongs. 

If we were standing on the elevation where common sense and a 
proper education should place us, and the light of that education was 
making visible the crimes and wrongs being enacted in the dark 
valley where we are today, we would stop repining at God and for- 
tune, destroy our tyrants, and rejoice in manhood and freedom. 

Reminiscent 

October, month of beauty, of crisp, clear, frosty air, of glorious 
sunshine days, of silent nights when stars twinkle in regal splendor, 
when nature changes into beautiful colors of crimson and gold along 
the stately groves — a few of which still remain by the edges of the 
prairies — where the gray stubble fields separate the fields of corn that 
rustle their withered leaves in the gentle wind, leaves made brittle by 
the frosts that have come to paint our landscapes as no other painter 
can ever hope to color them. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 185 



Sunday, by the very thoughtful kindness of Jacob and Mrs. Leh- 
man, we were permitted to see the beauties of this tenth daughter 
of the year, as they are spread out to view on what is called the 
"Hilly road" to Farmington — a road that, at this season, has so many 
fine scenes that one wishes he could gaze forever on this one, and 
yet makes one anxious to cross the next hollow, and catch the vista 
that opens from the succeeding hill-top. 

The road crosses the Kickapoo, the creek with the liquid Indian 
name, recalling the rude hunter, the cruel warrior, the wiley, sneaking, 
treacherous, cunning aborigines, those whose canoes once rippled the 
waters of this crooked stream, whose war whoop woke the echoes of 
these rugged hills, where chiefs held sway, where dusky Indian 
maiden was wooed and won, where life had all of comedy and tragedy, 
its hopes and fears, its joys and sorrows, its pleasures and its pains. 
Ah, noble, savage, ill-starred race! Brave, cunning, skilled in wood- 
craft and in nature's lore — but doomed — long since have they dis- 
appeared from this stream, these hills, and looking from the lofty 
peaks of the mighty Rockies, ''Read their doom in the setting sun." 

This bright morning of October 11, 1908, as two old couples drive 
rapidly over these hills, thought, with its curious ways — thought, that 
cannot be controlled — that will not move in planned orbits, nor run 
in prepared grooves — thought carries us back to those earlier scenes, 
and a tinge of solemn sadness creeps over the mind as it contemplates 
a race now almost extinct. 

Our friends were going to visit relatives, and we, too, were going 
to visit two cousins, the Misses Janie and Mary Torrens, the only two 
we are in touch with on a sainted and revered mother's side of the 
house. The social part of the trip was fully enjoyed by all, for never 
can we expect a kindlier welcome, nor a more royal entertainment. 

But we enjoyed another great pleasure — one that we fully ap- 
preciated. It was being present at the morning service in the Pres- 
byterian church. It was our privilege to belong to that grand body 
of devoted followers of God when the present house of worship was 
built. It has been twice remodeled since, and is a very beautiful and 
up-to-date building. The pulpit, originally at the east end, is now 
on the south side. The floor has been raised in order to make room for 
the heating plant, and is now almost on a level with the windows; a 
new floor of very narrow material has been put in, the frescoing is a 
marvel of beauty — in fact, they have a very fine, beautiful, convenient 
and comfortable house in which to worship. 

Their hour for morning service is 10 :30, and we arrived a little 
early, and as we sat waiting memory got busy, calling up the old house 
of worship that stood on another location, and where we spent our 
.Sundays from 1849 until the new house was erected on the present 



186 OUR HOUR ALONE 

site, and we recalled these grand old men and women who filled those 
ruder pews of those earlier days — those who are now sleeping the 
dreamless sleep over yonder in Oak Ridge Cemetery — then but a 
patch of hazel brush, with here and there a little opening where a 
pioneer's grave had been hollowed out and closed. We recalled John 
Simpson and his sweet-faced, motherly wife, pioneers in this church, 
as they were pioneers in the settlement of this great state. There, too, 
were John and Cunninghan Brown and their families, who lived at 
Five Mile Point, noted christians and noted abolitionists, whose sons 
fought to make America free indeed, and one of whom left an arm on 
one of the bloody fields of the civil war. Also the Mathews brothers, Rob- 
ert, John, Thomas and William, coming long distances to worship in 
that old frame church — all in the better land, except Robert, still living 
on the same farm, northwest of Yates City. Also James and Mrs. Arm- 
strong and their seven daughters and two sons, schoolmates, and as 
fine a family as ever graced a prairie home ; and John Wallace and his 
family, and Mrs. Montgomery, the mother of our A. E. Montgomery, 
and her daughter, Mary ; there, too, were the Torrens, the McKeighans, 
the Ralstons, the Dickeys, the Jacks, the Montgomerys, the Wilsons, 
the Vandersloots, the Marshalls, the Kelleys, the Stecks, the McKissicks, 
the Buchanans, the Stairs, and others, many of these latter from that 
nursery of pure Presbyterianism, Westmorland county, Pennsylvania. 

Then we thought of the time when, a barefoot boy, we swung our 
feet from those old hard seats and recited the shorter catechism and 
chapters from the Bible, and recalled the choir, led by Thomas Mont- 
gomery, and could again hear Lida Wilson, now Mrs. Ira Steenburg, 
and Lida Vandersloot, and all those other gifted singers, wonderfully 
gifted to us then. 

Then, too, rises a vision of a black eyed girl sitting beside us in 
one of those seats, on the first Sunday in 1859, receiving congratula- 
tions as a bride. She is sitting by us today as we notice some of the 
familiar forms come along the aisles and take their accustomed places, 
some of the then young, now bent by years, and gray — but 50 years 
make changes, and open graves have closed over many who then were 
young and fair. 

But the tones of the bell recall us from the past, and as they die in 
the distance, a bright young lady touches the keys of the piano with 
a skillful hand, and the congregation is singing "Praise God From 
Whom all Blessings Flow." Just before, a young man, a mere boy in 
appearance, has glided into the pulpit, and enters upon the duties of 
the hour. The choir is, today, but a quartette, but it is capable of de- 
lighting the ear by sacred song and beautifully executed anthem. 

The opening prayer is fine, helpful, uplifting, a foretaste of that 
to come after. The Scripture lesson is the 26th chapter of Job, and 



OUR HOUR ALONE 187 



the sermon founded on the closing verse: "Lo, these are parts of his 
ways; but how little a portion is heard of him? But the thunder of 
his power who can understand?" 

The sermon was a scholarly, able and eloquent production, and 
was a surprise for us, and we enjoyed being present to hear it and 
gather information and get inspiration from it. We prepared an out- 
line of it for this article, but busy cares and lack of help compel us, 
very reluctantly, to omit it. 

After the benediction we had the pleasure of meeting many of 
the old friends, and were moved by the earnestness and cordiality of 
their kindly greetings. 

We reached home at 4 :30 after another most delightful ride along 
those groves tinted with the crimson and gold, over those hills that 
are so fine in their regal autumn splendor, by fields of rustling corn, 
and passing those fine buildings that dot the farms, and looking off 
miles and miles on landscapes that even "Sunny Italy" cannot sur- 
pass. 

The Dying Girl 

Last week we spent Our Hour Alone in a sick room. As we 
drop into our place tonight, to commune with thought for a short 
time, we have tried to guide our reflections to some subject that would 
be light and profitable, if not gay. But we find that one well defined 
law of mind is that it is not subject to any law, and cannot be con- 
trolled. In spite of our efforts we will drift back into that sick room. 
We have described it — we say it, but we might say them — for, alas! 
they are all too numerous — so that it is familiar to all. But we have 
not reverted to the central figure in that invalid room. As we enter 
it tonight we are not struck so much with the surroundings, for our 
eye rests on the occupant of the bed. She is a girl — a mere child in 
appearance — perhaps thirteen, but looking a great deal younger, not 
over ten, one might say. She is of delicate stature; what we would 
denominate a frail child. But she has never complained much. Some- 
times a slight cold, or a fever, would render her listless for a day or 
two, but the vivacity of youth would assert itself, and she would be at 
play again. About two years before we look in upon the scene, she 
began to complain. In a few weeks disease had so developed that a 
physician was called. He made an examination, and told the parents 
frankly that the girl would die. As we see her now, she is lying on 
the bed, her head resting on a pillow, her hair, long and black, has 
been combed back from a smooth, white forehead; her eyes are large, 
and dark — almost, if not altogether, black; her skin is fair and her 
features regular. She is what one might call a handsome girl — not 
particularly beautiful. As she turns her eyes to greet us, on entering, 
there is a peculiar light emitted from them, that impresses us with the 



188 OUR HOUR ALONE 

idea that she is quick and bright beyond her years, or else that she 
has been thinking strange thoughts during all these weary days, and 
months, and years. To our inquiry, of how she is, she replies in a 
soft, sweet, musical voice, ''Oh! I am pretty well," and then adds, 
after a pause, "for me." There is no mistaking the look on her 
pinched features. It is not want, for everything has been done by 
parents and friends. It is the seal of death stamped on a youthful 
brow. In a week or two after this we again look into the room. It is 
much the same, but the bed has lost its occupant. She has become 
too weak to get up stairs, and we find her in the front room on the 
ground floor. She is thinner — if possible — there is a brighter light in 
her eyes as she responds to an inquiry, "I am so tired." Her appetite 
has failed. She has lost all interest in domestic affairs. What does 
she think of her own case? No one can tell. She has never hinted 
that she expected death. She may have known it all the time, but 
she has kept her own counsel. There has been scarcely a complaint, but 
now new complications arise. No one but her constant attendants 
know her true situation. For almost an entire week she has refused 
food, and simply takes a little water. On Saturday night there is a 
change. During the day her limbs have become cold. But she does 
not realize it. She breathes hard and labored. The family is about 
her bed. A few neighbors have been summoned. Ten o'clock comes — 
eleven — twelve. Still she lingers with sad, appealing eyes, looking 
around on those about her bed. The solemn old clock ticks on, and 
on, until daylight begins to light up the world and ushers in the 
Sabbath morn, and then she closes her eyes, and gently passes to the 
great beyond. We are in the presence of a dead girl. What follows 
is familiar to too many. Friends gather in. Preparation is made for 
a funeral. One and another tries to comfort the poor, stricken mother. 
Her task is ended. She has loved the girl until the end. There is 
another grave in the cemetery. The snows of winter will soon whiten 
the mound. We have tried to picture — not an ideal — but a reality. 
But we would not make you sad, dear readers of the Banner. Some of 
you feel just as we do at this moment, with the dimness of vision 
almost obscuring the lines we are trying to trace. But a divine writer 
has said: "It is better to go to the house of mourning, than that of 
laughter." It is profitable for us to remember that life is a reality, 
and death a terrible certainty. Let us live right, so that we may at 
least die with composure. Good night. 

A Love Story— The Book of Ruth One of the Sweetest— 
Whither Thou Goest I Will Go 

The book of Ruth is one of the sweetest of love stories. A far 
away romance without a blot or an impure suggestion to mar its 
beauty. Naomi did not need to be told that the "greatest thing in 



OUR HOUR ALONE 189 

this world is love," after she had taken to her heart the little Moabi- 
tish maiden, sounded the depths of that tender girlish nature and 
had proven its loyalty. 

Naomi had not been the only sufferer. The hand of death had 
smitten her sorely, it is true, making her woman's heart grieve and 
ache with its longing and its loneliness. She had come to this land rich 
in the love of a devoted husband and children. The new home was 
made happier by the presence of two young wives, but very soon 
the three strongest links in the chain that held the little home to- 
gether were taken away and the home made desolate. 

It was no wonder that Naomi's heart turned longingly to that 
other home in Bethlehem and the old friends to whom she had said 
good-bye in the happy past. But Ruth was still in her own land sur- 
rounded by those who had watched the growth and development of 
her young life from infancy, and who loved her unselfishly and faith- 
fully. But she had learned to love with a love that was heroic in its 
sacrificial strength. She knew just how lonely she would feel when 
she reached her own country, leaving behind her all that had made 
life sweet to her alone, without even the graves of the loved ones 
where she might go and whisper through the flowers and through the 
kindly earth the love thoughts, the longings that death cannot kill nor 
the grave prevent — but that reaches over and beyond into the silence 
and are swallowed up in the mystery that shuts our loved one from us. 

And so when Naomi, fearing the greatness of the sacrifice of the 
young heart, urged her to stay in her father's land, Ruth replied in 
tender words that will continue to touch the hearts of all future gen- 
erations as they have the past: "Entreat me not to leave thee, for 
whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge ; thy 
people shall be my people, and thy God my God." And to make as- 
surance doubly sure she binds the loving assurance with an oath of her 
people. We all know the result of Ruth's decision. She came into 
the life of Boaz, who quickly learned to love the young stranger, and 
as we trace her future history a little further down the line we come 
to the house of David and then to the Christ, a direct descendent of 
the union of Boaz and Ruth. 

Theologians tell us that all this chain of circumstances was the 
result of a great plan leading to the advent of the Christ. It may be 
so, and yet we are not willing to believe that Ruth was merely an 
instrument upon which the Father worked out a long premeditated 
plan. That she had been unconsciously influenced to such an extent 
that this beautiful act of devotion was the mere outcome of another's 
purpose. We love to think that among those heathen people the sons 
of Naomi found beautiful souls as well as beautiful bodies ; souls 
stamped with the purity of faithfulness that made this one at least 



190 OUR HOUR ALONE 

worthy to become the ancestress of the world's Redeemer. Ruth did 
just what a beautiful soul such as her's is certain to do; showed her 
great love by her sacrifice and her willingness to risk uncertainties 
that lay before her in the land of the strangers. 

God honors faithfulness whether to Him or to each other. It is 
no small thing to have such an abiding love in our hearts, for even 
earthly friends, that we are willing to follow them, if need be, 
into a strange land. And when we put our hand in the hand of the 
Father and give Him our promise to go with Him the rest of the way, 
it means much to Him even though He may know that sometimes we 
will turn back for a little to dwell in the tents of those who are not 
going His way. But if we keep our oath with Him as Ruth kept her's 
with Naomi He will honor our faithfulness with the best He has in 
store for His friends. Are our people His people? Do we lodge with 
Him by day and by night, keeping our souls "under the covert of 
His wing," not looking for a reward, but just because — like Ruth — we 
love Him with an abiding love? If so, no harm can come to us here 
or hereafter. 

"It may be He keeps waiting, 

Till the coming of my feet. 
Some gift of such rare blessedness, 

Some joy so strangely sweet. 
That my lips shall lonely tremble. 

With the thanks they cannot speak." 

Christmas at Bozeman, Montana 

The law governing thought is that thought cannot be governed. 
This may seem paradoxical, but it is true. Still thought is not so in- 
ward that external circumstances do not affect it. On the contrary, 
outward things have very much to do with what is passing in the 
inner consciousness of man. And so it is not to be wondered at that 
as we drop into the accustomed place to make the record of Our 
Hour Alone, and we look out through a clear patch on the frost mosiac 
of the large pane in the window, and the dim outline of the peaks 
that rise in sombre and solemn grandeur around the city of Bozeman, 
whose people are long since gone to rest, and, let us hope, to pleasant 
dreams, and stand there as silent sentinels guarding their slumbers, 
and the beautiful valley stretching away toward the west, and ter- 
minating where the Missouri, that tortuous, treacherous, but mag- 
nificent river, first takes its name, and starts its murky waters toward 
the great Father of Waters, in their onward flow through defile, and 
gorge, and valley, until they find an outlet in that ocean that is like 
eternity in that it receives, absorbs, and yet is never full, and the 
thought comes to us that ere we pen another article for this column 



OUR HOUR ALONE 191 

the Christmas time will have come and gone, marching with the 
solemn stateliness of the paralaxes of the planets out of the future 
and into the past, that it is no fault of ours, nay more, that it is almost 
without our volition that there rises before us a starlit plain in a 
distant land, and that the dim outlines of Judea's hills appear, and 
that we see the flocks at rest safe in the folds, and hear the gentle 
hum of shepherds' voices as they recount the greatness of the past 
of Israel, when warrior kings went forth to war, and 

"Smote the foes of Zion and of God," 

or in the low, sad cadences of sorrow deeply felt, spoke of the days of 
Israel's deep disgrace, Avhen haughty heathen monarchs led them 
captives in a stranger land, and while their hearts were bursting with 
ithe exile's longings for his home, asked him to sing the songs of 
Zion, and whispered how these sorrowing captives hung their harps 
upon the willow boughs, and would not, could not sing. 

'Tis little wonder if towers and minarets of proud Jerusalem 
rise up to limn themselves upon the sky, and that some vision, faint 
and dim, but still a vision, should come to us that the fullness of 
time was well nigh come, and that deliverance to the captive and 
tributary Jew, now chaffing in the Roman yoke, was near. 

Ah ! What a scene was that upon which those silent stars looked 
down that night, upon those plains where flocks were fed and tended 
by simple peasant men, amid the beauty and grandeur of the hill 
country of Judea. The promise of this night had been given when the 
sound of the virgin waters of the Euphrates awoke the slumbering 
echoes of an infant world. The finger of prophesy had pointed to 
this night, and the voice of the seer had spoken of it in deep, mys- 
terious tones. The types, the shadows, the sacrifices and the oblations 
of a nation's religion voiced the hope that such a night as this was 
somewhere to come and burst with glorious hope across the path 
where faith still lured the worshipers of God. The kings, the judges, 
the conquering generals of a nation rich in patriotism and valor had 
made a preparation for such a night. Ezekiel in his visions wonder- 
ful and strange, caught glimpses of it. The glowing imagery of rapt 
Isaiah's ecstatic mind was poured upon the living page to herald it, 
and the sweet singer of Israel, himself the shepherd king, caught his 
sublime inspiration from a contemplation of the glory and beauty, 
the promise and hope of this night, in which a new revelation would 
come to humanity, and promise be indeed a blessed reality. 

"What wonder the scene rises like a vision before us, separated 
as we are by almost nineteen centuries from its eventuation. Has not 



192 OUR HOUR ALONE 

its wondrous beauty, and more wonderful hope, and its glad reality, 
made prolific the historian's page, inspired the poet's song, made the 
brush of the painter give the dull canvas a voice, and caused the sculp- 
tor's marble block to become a living, breathing record of it? 

We look a moment at those lamps of God shining down on Bridger, 
cold and calm, and silent, and grand, and we see them as they twinkled, 
and glowed, and scintillated above those other far away hills, and 
we look up at them and forget the lapse of the centuries, and stand 
again beside those humble shepherds. They have ceased conversing, 
and the rich, mellow and sweetly intoned Jewish voices are just trilling 
the first bars of a sacred song, when a low murmur of ravishing music 
breaks the stillness of these historic plains, coming nearer, rising in 
volume, gathering strength, and sweetness, and power, rolling along 
the valleys, climbing up the mountain steeps, waking the music of 
the spheres, reverberating along the star gemmed canopy, and again 
being flung back to earth. The awe-struck shepherds stand and listen. 
A brightness of sun, or moon, or stars, lights up the landscape. The 
vales, the hills, the gorges, the mountains, all glow in more than 
natural brightness. The glad new song comes swelling on the mid- 
night air. The words are, "Peace on earth, good will to men." 

The great event of all the centuries was in that song. It an- 
nounced the birth of Him who was to restore to man the image he had 
lost. In Nazareth, in the little hamlet of Bethlehem, in a manger, 
the God-child was nestling in the arms of the Hebrew mother. 

He grew among these hills, a pattern for all men. He went among 
these hills a teacher of peace, of love, of righteousness. He brought 
hope and joy and happiness to the poor, the needy, the weary, the 
heavy laden. He talked face to face with the poor and the outcast. 
He spake as never man spake. He became the man of sorrows. He 
gave Himself a sacrifice to rescue man from the power of sin. No 
wonder that night that heard the angel song that told the Savior was 
born comes back to us at this time. To that sublime event we owe 
all our civilization here, and our certainty of eternal felicity. 

In a few days the events of that night will be recalled, remem- 
bered and celebrated in every spot where man dwells. Happy fam- 
ilies will hold reunions; merry children will sing about the star of 
Bethlehem ; the poor will be remembered, and gifts of friendship will 
cement ties of love. 

Ah! dear readers, how could we do otherwise than remember 
that glad night when the angel songs announced the glad tidings that 



OUR HOUR ALONE 193 

Christ was born and man redeemed. May His blessing rest on all 
your homes, on all your lives, on all your efforts to lift up the fallen, 
and may you all enjoy a merry Christmas. 

Educated Intelligence 

Obedience is a soldier's first duty. No one will deny this propo- 
sition. It is a self-evident fact, and cannot be denied. This is not a 
reasoning obedience, but unreasoning. He is not to obey after he 
becomes satisfied that the command is a reasonable one, but at once, 
without delay. On this promptitude depends the efficacy, the success, 
and often" the salvation of the army. There is a general somewhere 
who is doing the thinking, the planning, and on whose shoulders rests 
the responsibility. The soldier is not in direct touch with the general, 
but the genera] must have some plan by which he can move the sol- 
dier. Military wisdom has determined that the only sure way to do 
this is to teach, to inculcate, to demand perfect obedience to the supe- 
rior, from the men in the ranks up through all the grades of the 
service. This has a tendency to make an army a machine, and that 
is just what it is intended to be, a machine, and a machine, too, that 
is intended for a purpose. 

Sometimes it may seem arbitrary to demand obedience before 
reasoning, and it is. It may even occur that reasoning is natural, and 
cannot be prohibited. But remember, the proposition is, obedience 
is the soldier's first duty. After he has obeyed he may reason as much 
as he pleases. The soldier whose only duty is to obey would be a poor 
soldier indeed. The more intelligence, thought, education and refine- 
ment there is about a soldier the more effective he is. And an army 
is weak or powerful just in proportion to its degree of thought, and 
its advancement in education. For proof of this may be cited the 
contest between those two great powers, France and Germany. The 
former was a nation polite, affable, genteel, gay, mercurial, but it was 
a nation whose educational privileges had been neglected. The latter 
was a nation whose educational advantages had been pushed to the 
utmost limit, and whose school system was the best in the world. It 
was superficial ignorance meeting in the shock of battle cultured edu- 
cation, and the result was not doubtful to those who had been watch- 
ing the systems that were being pursued in the two countries. Both 
these armies were under the best of discipline; both of them were 
ruled by this idea that a soldier's first duty is obedience; both of them 
were commanded by generals whose skill and bravery could not be 
doubted ; and yet the lesson of history is that the nation whose com- 
mon school system was the best, annihilated the vast armies of her 



194 OUR HOUR ALONE 



antagonist, dismembered her territory, caused the capitulation of her 
capital city, and compelled her disgraced and beaten people to pay 
an enormous tribute to her victorious conquerors. 

The great internecine war that tested the endurance and the 
patriotism and the valor of the citizen soldiery of America furnished 
another example. North of Mason and Dixon's line there flourished an 
intelligence that was proverbial, the result of a common school system 
that has no superior except that of Germany. South of that line was 
the dense ignorance in whose dark shadow only the poisonous plant of 
slavery could be nourished. When beaten in argument these deluded 
people appealed to the arbitrament of the sword; they arrayed in 
two oposing forces men whose natural bravery was equal, whose 
leaders were alike skilful, whose determination brushed away all com- 
mon obstacles, whose knowledge of a soldier's first duty were alike 
practiced, and yet graduates of the little white school houses overcame 
the boasted chivalry of the defenders of ignorance and slavery, com- 
pelled them to relinquish ownership in man and taught them to doubt 
the sophistry that "Ignorance is bliss." 

The thought is that while blind obedience may be a necessary 
factor in making a million individuals an effective machine for the 
accomplishment of some purpose, that there is still back of that a more 
important factor — that of educated human intelligence. Mind is 
superior to matter. It always has been, and it will ever remain so. 
Brain must direct muscle in order that muscle may overcome obstacles. 
It is educated intelligence that counts the stars and measures and 
weighs distant planets; that goes down into the bottom of the seas 
and holds up to gaze the mysteries hidden in those wave-washed cav- 
erns; that quarries the flinty rocks that hold the histories of all the 
ages, as plainly written, and more securely kept than parchment or 
tome could possibly have kept them; that has given us literature, arts 
and science ; that has sought out inventions, laid submarine cables, 
girded the earth with wires, laid bands of steel across continents, 
hung bridges over rushing torrents, dug tunnels through mountains, 
sent ocean greyhounds bounding over the waves, and planted the pop- 
ulace city where but yesterday a swamp wilderness was found. Yes, 
educated intelligence is the magician whose deft wand is potent to 
create or to destroy. 

Is there a lesson here to recompense an Hour Alone? Most surely 
yes. "Will we stand idly by and see some foreign horde pour on these 
shores with fell intent to cripple and destroy that system that has made 
us great, because, forsooth, they take exception to the language, the 
religion taught? It must not be. These schools must stand whatever 
else may fall. With them is freedom safe. Without them, who can 
tell what tyranny may do? 



OUR HOUR ALONE 195 



The hour grows late, and nature seeks repose. We leave the sub- 
ject here, content if some one following in the train of thought born 
of this Hour Alone, grasps some idea not before perceived, sees some 
new duty in the pathway of their life, or gathers resolution to make 
their children wiser than their sires. 



The Dead Mother 

"Our lives are albums written through. 
With good or ill, with false or true. 
And as the blessed angels turn 
The pages of our years, 
God grant they read the good with smiles. 
And blot the bad with tears." 

She was a dead mother. Her feet had trod the path of duty for 
a little over 62 years — the plate on the beautiful casket said, 62 years, 
1 month and 5 days. Her's had been the life of labor and duty, of 
trial and of trust. Known only to the circle of neighbors and friends 
where the blessed ministrations of her love had endeared her; she 
knew nothing of fame beyond the simple and honest praise bestowed 
upon her by those she had aided in the painful hour of sickness and 
suffering, and in the bitter hour of death, "When the darkness of 
despair curtained the chambers, and the tempest of sorrow was abroad 
in its terror." It was only those who knew her very intimately who 
understood the excellence of her character, and the many noble vir- 
tues that adorned her quiet, unostentatious life. She was not a talker, 
but a worker. Her's was the timid, retiring disposition that shrank 
from publicity, and found its chief pleasure in those home duties, and 
■deeds of loving kindness, that all her neighbors who were sick or in 
trouble felt were the most precious of all ministrations. She was an 
humble follower of the Savior, but she did not follow afar off; her's 
vv^ere those Christian graces that are not the result of accident, but 
.are rather the reward of diligence in all the commands of God. It 
would seem that writing the obituary of such an one would be an easy 
task, but it is not so to us. We remember a beautiful painting that 
-we once saw ; it will never be forgotten ; it was the masterpiece of all 
that we have ever seen ; but we can never describe it ; its beauties are 
known to us, and fully appreciated, but when we attempt to write 
of it we find no words adequate to convey our meaning, and yet we 
Tcalize that it is ever a pleasant recollection shrined in our heart. It 
is so with this dear daughter, sister, wife, mother, aunt and friend; 
we all knew what she was ; we all realized that she filled a place that 
no one else can fill. It were better, perhaps, to speak sparingly in 
Tier praise ; for if we did her justice, those who knew her less intimately 



196 OUR HOUR ALONE 

than we, would think it fulsome adulation; and did we not leave this 
impression on their minds, then would we wrong the dead. When 
we took up our pen we meant to write, "Dead." But we could not 
write it so; such as she are not dead, and cannot die. She has laid 
down to sleep — to rest — gone home to dwell with God, But tell us not, 
while gathered thus around her still and pulseless form, clad in the 
vestments of the grave, that death is an eternal sleep; our human 
hearts rebel at such a thought, and skepticism skulks away to hide 
itself, while faith arrays her plumage, and spreads her wings for 
flight, and circling a moment o'er the grave, darts up among the 
peaks of the eternities, leaves the cold, damp, chilling atmosphere 
of earth, and bathing her pinions in the beams of the sun of righteous- 
ness, sees that our dear, departed ones are not dead, but sleeping. 

But oh ! how sad, and bruised, and broken are these poor hearts ! 
How full of bitter anguish are our souls! Why fall these tears? For 
her, and not for her, but for ourselves ; for what we lose, and not for 
what she gains. Who bids us to be comforted knows not the grief we 
feel. Only time mellows grief; that comes apace, but still it comes 
to change our present bitter anguish into a pleasant memory of the 
lost. 

She died in hope; she hopes no more but sees; we are hoping 
still, and in a little time will wake as from a daze, pick up the tools 
that, fallen, lie about, dropped from our nerveless grasp, and go to 
hewing at our different tasks in life. We linger loath to end the last 
sad — pleasing — bitter — sweet — but loving task that we can ever do 
for her. Let us resolve to drop our grosser sins, amend our faults, 
strive hence to live the life she patterned us, then will we hear the 
call of God come welcome as the wedding bells, and meet her in that 
realm where there are no farewells — farewell. 

Is the Young Man Safe? 

It makes considerable difference what mood of mind we are in 
when we come to discharge any duty, and it may be pleasant or irk- 
some, just as that condition is joyous or gloomy. The physical, the 
mental and the religious worlds are analogous in many respects, and 
in whichsoever of them we attempt to do something there will be 
times when we feel all out of sorts, and we say that we are not 
capable of doing as well as we would like to, nor as well as we feel 
we have done in some past attempt. And we find ourselves in much 
the same case as Paul was when he said that ''The good that we 
would, we do not, while the evil that we would not, that do we." 
And as in the religious life "The spirit is ofttimes willing but the 
flesh weak," so we are cognizant that in the intellectual world, the 
desire to do is often beyond the power to accomplish. These phe~ 



OUR HOUR ALONE 197 

nomona often leave us perplexed as to what is the best course to 
pursue, or what path we should follow ; what subject we should 
treat on, or what theme would the best meet the wants of those with 
whom we expect to come in contact. In the case of a newspaper 
writer — all of whose work must be desultory, crude, hasty, unfinished, 
and, in a manner, incomplete — it is no small matter of anxiety to 
determine what particular subject to treat on at any particular time, 
or in what manner it shall be treated. As no two faces are alike, so no 
two minds are the same. It is then clearly evident that no subject 
can be so presented as to strike with the same force on the minds that 
are intended to be operated on. But, as has before been intimated in 
these articles, which we have taken up from time to time since we 
have been in Yates City, we generally come to them without pre- 
meditation and permit fancy to roam in partial freedom, with no 
restriction except it be a determined purpose that nothing shall be 
allowed that we do not sincerely believe will be helpful to some fellow 
mortal, that will inspire new courage in some faint heart, give fresh 
hope to some desponding soul, awaken a better desire in some care- 
less one, and inculcate a more universal confidence and trust in that 
religion revealed in the scriptures, a religion that the writer has 
never — for a single moment — doubted, that he looks to for support in 
life, and that good hope for the life that is beyond the grave, that 
he confidently expects will enable him to meet the last enemy with 
a serenity born of an unflinching hope of immortality. And while 
we have almost unconsciously fallen into this personal theme — a 
thing that we by no means expect to make a practice of doing — 
let us say here and now, that we do not intend that after this life 
work of ours is done, our friends will have to speculate as to what 
our opinions of religion were. We are neither afraid nor ashamed 
to make the public statement that we believe in a religion that makes 
men and women better, lifts the great burden of grief from human 
hearts, induces a higher standard of morality, leads to a broader 
and grander civilization, inculcates the fatherhood of God and the 
brotherhood of man, and gives us the assurance of a larger and morei 
exalted life when we are done with earth. 

But this is only a digression ; yet it is one for which we feel no 
apology is necessary. It may be that it will exactly meet the require- 
ments of some one, and that it may be helpful to them. Still we 
expected to follow a different train of thought when we took our 
accustomed seat. That was in the direction of the young men. We 
have recurred to them again and again, and it may be that we are so 
inclined from reading the text used by Rev. S. L. Guthrie, of our 
own town, in preaching a sermon, last Sunday, in Peoria, on the 
occasion of the meeting of the Y. M. C. A.: *'Is the young man safe?'^ 



198 OUR HOUR ALONE 



This is an important question. It should come with great force, 
to every young man. It does come with terrible earnestness to the 
parents of every young man. There are so many dangers in the path, 
so many pitfalls to be avoided, so many sins to be shunned, so many 
vices to escape from, so many enemies to meet and overcome, and 
youth is so hopeful, so buoyant, so impetuous, so confident, that it 
is no wonder the anxious parent stands inquiring of those who have 
been in that great battle, "Is the young man safe?" 

Oh, there are so many blasted, ruined, dead lives — dead while 
yet living, and in the hey-day of youth — that the question forces 
itself on every one who takes pride in a grand, noble, strong, vigorous 
character, "Is the young man safe?" 

While this text is from the Bible, we are not a minister, nor 
does it necessarily have to be confined to a religious point of view, 
although the young man who is a consistent actor on the precepts of 
the gospel is generally safe. But they need to be safe in this world. 
Any one has but to look around to see that there are two kinds of 
young men. There are two classes of them. One class is to earn and 
wear the honors of the world; they will be its teachers, its writers, its 
statesmen, its preachers, its philanthropists. The other is to become its 
thieves, its murderers, its law breakers, its candidates for prisons, alms- 
houses, penitentiaries and gibbets. The one class is to become honored, 
respected, useful, and will live in the history and songs of a nation. 
The other will be despised, hated, detested, shunned, and will be exe- 
crated by all who value character. Every young man is a candidate 
for one or the other of these classes. He is being educated for one or 
the other. If he is weak in filial love, has no respect for law, is idle, is 
a corner loafer, frequents saloons, gambling hells and low resorts, has no 
desire to read good books, and loves to associate with the evil, the 
vicious, the depraved, the vile, it takes no prophet to tell what he 
will come to, if he do not change. But if he be a lover of home, 
honors his parents, avoids the company of the low and vulgar, 
improves every means to secure useful knowledge, reads good books, 
keeps good company, is free from vices, avoids bad habits, is honest, 
truthful, upright and conscientious, he is on the sure road to happi- 
ness, if not to wealth and honor. Young man, are you safe ? Remem- 
ber it all depends on your own choice. If anywhere in this article 
there is a word, a thought, an idea, that will arouse you to see this 
matter in its true importance, then will this Hour Alone not have been 
spent in vain. 

The Empty Chair 

There are empty chairs in every household — sooner or later. An 
empty chair in Chamberlain's furniture store has no significance. It 
brings up no vision of the past; it arouses no thought; it touches no 



OUR HOUR ALONL 199 

sealed fountain in the hearts, releases no tears, lifts no veil, discloses 
no picture, stirs no great deep of the emotion. The chair has never 
been filled, hence it does not appeal to us in the language of the heart. 
It is not the empty chairs of the furniture store that we see in this 
Hour Alone. 

It is the empty chairs of the home that speak to us in so many 
languages, that recall so many pictures, that call up sacred visions, 
that stir the deeper feeling of the heart, that break up the great deeps 
of human feeling. 

These empty chairs are found in almost every home. If there be 
one here and there which is an exception, then are there here and 
there a family who lack in a rounded out experience. One whose 
mind cannot comprehend the almost universal language of the empty 
chair; and whose heart has not felt how near broke it may be by 
sorrow. 

In this armed chair a father rested in the quiet evenings, when 
cares of day are done and moon serene shines brightly in the star 
studded dome of heaven, and nature folds her numerous lids in 
sleep. What cares were daily his? What anxious cares for those 
sheltered in that home? What sacrifices were his? What shields he 
wore to ward the foes his children never dreamed were lurking near — 
nay, were daily met and turned aside. That armed chair speaks to 
the very heart of the grown-up sons and daughters of the sire whose 
work has long been finished, and whose rest is so secure, so undis- 
turbed. 

In this easy rocker a mother once gently swayed back and forth. 
What cares were daily her lot? Here we children came to pour the 
tale of our petty sorrows, and to be soothed by a love that never grows 
weary, never falters, is never alienated, a love that death fails to 
destroy, that is heir to two worlds, and is a strong argument that 
the soul is immortal. Around this rocker we came as shadows wrapped 
a world, and by her knee we knelt to repeat after her that matchless 
prayer that Christ taught his disciples, "Our Father who art in 
heaven?" As she kissed us "goodnight," how little did we compre- 
hend how much that mother love meant to us, and what she really 
was doing for us. What a revelation that empty rocker is to us, as 
we view it when she "who had our earliest kiss, sleeps in her narrow 
home." 

In this row of empty chairs the brothers and sisters sat, care-free, 
and shielded by parental care and love. They are all empty now, and 
each some memory brings. Death claimed a noble boy with much 
of promise in life, and here a daughter loved and idolized, and we 
watched "Her fade out as the flowers fade out in the still autumn 
air." And others heard ambition call and were lured out from the 



200 OUR HOUR ALONE 

sheltering home and love, with story old as time, but young to every 
youth, enticed the daughters fair, time keeps his ruthless stride and 
works his magic changes, and every empty chair recalls some history 
sad as death, or filled with pleasing memories. 

In a little high chair — now empty, and put away in a spare room 
upstairs sat a child, a lovely child — what mother ever clasped to her 
bosom a child that was not — to her maternal vision — lovely as a 
dream. The angel came; the child vanished; a tiny mound is mossed 
each year "When Summer grass grows green," and the chair is 
empty, but not so empty as that mother heart. That is a sacred 
chair; she steals away from household cares, and softly tip-toes up 
and stands before her Mecca ; a little dress is folded on the seat, a tiny 
pair of shoes hangs on the back; a ring tied with a ribbon is on a 
round of the arm ; a very small pair of stockings is on the little foot 
rest. She bends before these relics of her lost ; tears, tears, such as 
only the bereaved mother can shed, fall in profusion to baptize these 
cherished things, and then she forces back a sorrow from which she 
would not be divorced, takes with her from the place — her shrine — a 
grief she will not forget, and realizes the deep sorrow of every mother 
heart since Eve wept over the corpse of Abel, slain. 

Oh ! these empty chairs, they speak to us in tones of veriest sad- 
ness — not like some wireless message coming from afar, but in our 
very ears, here in this quiet, Yates City home, they speak a language 
that father hearts and mother hearts, and hearts of brothers, sister, 
children, all know the meaning of, and should this Hour Alone call 
up the loved ones of the home — the most sacred spot on earth, and 
bring to you dear readers of the Banner, the words they spake, the 
pictures they presented, the visions they held, and help you to learn 
the lessons they do teach, then do we rest content. 

The Tick of Time 

Silence has settled over the town. For more than two hours not 
a footfall has reverberated along the streets. The old clock in the 
corner ticks out with startling clearness. How did it ever come that 
in the busy bustle and hurry of business during the day, we sat in 
this same seat, but failed to hear its tick? Does not this teach us a 
lesson? In the great house of the world we have long occupied a 
room ; it contains a clock that has been busy ticking away our passing 
hours ; measuring them out with the deliberate swing and equipoise of 
the pendulum, and yet so intent have we been grasping after the 
grandly painted butterflies that floated around us in the tepid sun- 
shine, that we have failed to detect a single tick, or mark the loudest 
noise that measures the portion of duration called time. Can it be 
that time is so short for each of us and yet so seldom noticed? Is it 



OUR HOUR ALONE 201 

possible that "the days of the years of our lives are three score years 
and ten," and yet that we take no note of their departure until the 
decrepitude of old age compels us to give some heed to their lengthen- 
ing shadows? 

Infancy is all too much a-gape with wonder at the many strange 
things about us, to permit us to hear the measured tick or heed it, boy- 
hood all too rollicking and careless to heed them, were it possible to 
hear. Youth all too intent on study or pleasure to spare time to listen 
to them. Manhood demands all our time and energies in the great 
battle of life, where each one is alike a soldier, so that no opportunity 
comes for us to pay attention to such a sound. Middle age comes, but 
it, too, demands so much of man ; children have grown up about us, 
and we are anxious now — not for ourselves, but for them — that they 
may be properly settled, and that they escape our earlier privations, 
and we fail to note that time's old clock has ticked on and on, and on, 
all these years, never failing, never stopping, never varying, but ever 
faithful and true. 

But a serener, a calmer period came; the wondering child is no 
more ; the careless boy is not here ; the diligent student or careless 
devotee of pleasure has passed away; the strong, lithe man has lost 
his power; the careful and considerate period of middle age has re- 
ceded, and we are sitting in that sacred room in the house of the 
world, that it set apart for old age ; there is a solemn quietness about 
it ; no childish voice disturbs its repose ; no noisy boy breaks its slum- 
bering echoes; no inquisitive youth comes to perplex with curious 
questions ; our sons and daughters have come out of the mists of the 
past, and have gone out into the ocean of life to buffet with its rude 
billows, and as we sit in the silent room, the tick of the great clock of 
time smites upon our ear, with a suddenness that appalls us, and we 
remember that death stands just over against us on the other side; 
a glittering coffin, just our measure, appears in front of us ; and just 
beyond it, a little further out if you please, is a fresh dug grave that 
seems to have been meant to receive the coffin. 

Every tick is now so clear and distinct that we wonder how we 
ever could have given no heed to them ; they sound to us now like 
funeral knells; can it be that they are indeed so? Is it possible that 
we have been dying all these years, and were not aware of it? Is it 
true that so soon, ah! so very soon, the midnight tick of time will be 
sounded, and the first tick of eternity break on our ravished ears? 

It may be so; for already the old clock in the corner has slowly 
crept up to "midnight's holy hour," and bidding you, dear readers, a 
kind good night, we seek the sweet repose of sleep. 



Ki 



202 OUR HOUR ALONE 

Changed 

Here is a parent who has a family of children in whom his whole 
heart seems wrapped up. They have twined the clinging tendrils of 
their affection about his very being, until they are so much a part 
of his every day existence that he can not bear the thought of being 
parted from them even for a short time. They are little idols en- 
throned in his heart, and they have not only claimed the larger share 
in his devotions, but they have imperceptibly and silently, but not the 
less really usurped the place of every other object of his worship. 

But as the years pass a change comes ; one — a babe — a very little 
one — falls sick; the small form wastes and shrinks under the burning 
fever and doubts creep into your heart that drive you to the verge 
of madness, and you frantically strive to draw the hand of the infant 
out of the grasp of the chilling hand that has changed so many little 
forms, and you turn to heaven and ask God if it be possible to "Let 
this cup pass from you," while you can not, you will not say, "Never- 
theless not my will, but Thine be done." Ah! we doubt if there ever 
was on earth such a sublime faith as would enable the parents to say 
this as they sit by the little cot where lies their dying child, and they 
are standing face to face with the first real sorrow that has ever 
touched the horizon of their lives. The scene will come back to the 
parents who read this, and memory will recall how they went out 
into the night, and looked up to where the stars twinkled and glittered 
as if misery did not reach their sphere, and wondered if God knew 
what a sorrow was in their heart, and if He would not come and de- 
liver them from it. They will recall how they went somewhere — it 
may have been into the garden — a veritable Gethsemane at that hour — 
and were in agony as they pleaded with God for the life of the child ; 
or it may have been into the open field where the corn nodded gently 
to the night wind, and nature's beaded sorrow hung in glittering drops 
from slanting grass, and scented flower, and pendant branch, and you 
mingled the dew of your grief with that distilled from heaven; or it 
may have been into some empty granary where you cast yourself upon 
the cheerless floor, and called the silent hills of Judea to mind, and 
saw the man of sorrows, as He stands by the gate of Capernaum and 
says to the Centurion, "Go thy way, and as thou hast believed, so be 
it done unto thee"; we see Him standing at the bedside where lay the 
twelve-year-old daughter of Jairus, dead, and we hear Him saying, 
"Weep not; she is not dead, but sleepeth"; and watch him as He 
takes her by the hand and says "Talitha cumi"; we see Him as He 
stands by the grave of Lazarus and through His sympathetic tears 
says, "Come forth"; we see Him as He journeys and is drawing nigh 
to the humble hamlet of Nain, where He meets the funeral train with 
the one desolate and heart-broken mourner, and as He stops the bier 



U R HOUR ALONE 203 

and restores to the widow her only son, we ask, dear Lord, were 
their sorrows greater than ours ? Why have the days of miracles gone 
by; and you besought God to have mercy on you too, and not break 
your idol. Yes, and dear one, may it not be that in all your experience, 
from childhood to those mature years, this is the first genuine prayer 
that you have ever uttered? The first petition that you have wafted 
heavenward with a sincere desire that it might be answered? 

But the end came; your idol turned to clay; your hope perished; 
and you stood looking down into the little grave, and felt that in all 
the universe there could not be a sorer heart than was then beating in 
your bosom. 

And this experience is repeated again and again, only varied as 
to the age of the subject, until more than half your loved ones have 
perished from the earth, and the row of mounds indicate all stages of 
growth from infancy to mature age. And you look from your deso- 
lated home into the dark gloom of the changed world, loath to believe 
that anybody can possibly have known a deeper grief. 

But just as you are about to draw this gloomy conclusion, you 
remember one who has a son whose body has grown to manhood, while 
the mind has remained a perfect blank — a desert incapable of culti- 
vation — in whose soil no flower of knowledge will ever expand its petals, 
and no cluster of fruit ripen to reward the anxious solicitude of the 
distracted parent. And you begin to consider what a trial it must be, 
and what a heavy cross your neighbor has been bearing — none the less 
heavy because it is a cross that he seldom refers to — and as you let 
the mind go back over those weary, hopeless years that he has borne 
the burden, and as you look into the meaningless eyes of the unfortu- 
nate one, you begin to realize that you could go right out to the cem- 
etery, and kneeling above the mounds that cover your sainted dead, 
you could thank God that He had dealt with you in such tenderness, 
and that He had placed on your shoulders a cross so light in com- 
parison. 

This world was intended to be earth and not heaven. And if there 
were no burdens to weary us, how could we wish for rest? If there 
were no clouds in our sky, how could we appreciate the glad burst of 
sunshine? If there were no cross, how could the crown give us joy? 
Let us remember that the ills of life are the common lot of humanity, 
and that we are but one of a vast multitude born to sorrow and trouble, 
but destined to endless happiness, if we but rise through suffering to 
that state of mind that will lead us to depend on God for that grace, 
that help, that pardon that will enable us to live the life of the 
righteous, that we may be prepared to die his death. And if we do this, 
we will learn, in time, to know that no affliction has overtaken us 



204 O UR HOUR ALONE 

but such as is common to man. And we will learn, too, that by con- 
sidering the more grievous sorrows and trials of others, we can the 
more readily bear our own, if indeed we do not entirely forget them. 

Sunday 

Sunday was an ideal Indian Summer day, hazy, smoky, calm, slum- 
brous, fine as one could ever hope for, wish for, or even dream of, 
October tinted beauty on garden, field, wood and landscape, a red sun 
flooding a world in mellow light, the song bird in weary southern 
flight or sadly silent. Nature wearing the hectic glow that tints the 
cheek that cruel fate has beautified for death and you get an idea, 
dim, vague, shadowy, and far below reality, because he who writes 
is void in mental power, lacks the poetic fire divine, the artist's vivi- 
fying and creative touch, and halts in speech, and fails to tell the 
beauty of the marvelous scene that wrapt Yates City in, enfolded, 
the outlying fertile fields, and touched with magic wand the wooded 
slopes of distant French Creek and sinuous Kickapoo on that glorious 
October Sunday morning. 

No wonder the church services were well attended, for true it is that 
human kind, through Nature, catches glimpses of Nature's own great 
God and bows in reverent worship. And so it was that the influence 
of early training — for which we are indebted to Godly, faithful 
parents, to whom we hope we do not fail to be thankful, to whom we 
are indebted hopelessly, for to repay it would bankrupt an angel, and 
is beyond the resources of the weakest sinner — led us to pre-empt part 
of a pew in the Presbyterian Church. As we drew near the church 
we noticed there were twenty-four fine rigs at the tie-posts about the 
edifice, and there was a good-sized congregation on the inside. The 
services were fine, the music excellent. Mrs. Ada Allen touched the 
organ keys with no 'prentice hand, but with a natural skill that culture 
and practice had made close to perfection, and the choir and the con- 
gregation accompanied the organ with rythmic precision. Rev. W. H, 
Clatworthy offered the morning prayer, eloquent, helpful, devotional 
and uplifting. Miss Lilly McGinnis then sang a solo in her own usual 
happy and pleasing manner, accurate in time, sweet-toned, grand and 
inspiring, a fit preparation for the coming sermon. The pastor, Rev. 
S. A. Teague, read the scripture lesson and in a sermon that exceeded 
even the high mark of his own undoubted ability, he brought a mes- 
sage of comfort, of love, of joy, of mercy and hope, to every hearer. 
At the close L. A. Lawrence offered an appropriate prayer. Rev. W. H. 
Clatworthy pronounced the benediction and the congregation went 
softly out. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 206 

Do you think the picture overdrawn and too highly colored? If 
so, then are we sure that you did not — as did we — enter the church 
conscious of what a miserable failure our life had been during the 
week just gone, and feeling that the Master's look must be turned 
upon us with the same sorrowful compassion in which it was turned 
upon the impetuous Peter on that eventful night when he denied his 
Lord. 

The blind no beauty see in flowers. The deaf are unresponsive to 
the loftiest strains of the grandest symphony, and we too, may fail to 
see the beauty of the message, nor hear the music of that voice that 
says, ''Come unto Me, all ye who labor, and are heavy laden, and I 
will give you rest," 

The Hebrew Mother 

"I give thee to thy God — the God that gave thee, 
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart! 
And precious thou art. 
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee. 
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled! 
And thou shalt be His child." 

The shades of a November night have fallen over the homes of 
Yates City, those homes in which the toils, the cares, the hopes, the 
joys, the sorrows of life have been enacted during a day that had 
opened with a chill November rain, but cleared as the hours passed, 
and as the evening gathered, and a sun that had but shyly peeked out 
through rifts in dull, cold, leaden clouds, was hidden behind the rim 
of a revolving world, and a northwest wind, keen, chilling, penetrat- 
ing, called up before us the gloomy scene that in bygone years rose 
on the vision of "Scotia's matchless bard," when he saw in a mental 
vision the bare fields, the leafless forest, the bleak hills, the chilling 
waters of Ayr, and began that creepy, solemn dirge, opening with : 

"When chill November's surly blasts, 
Make fields and forests bare." 

We were wondering what we might say that would be helpful to 
some one, when there arose before us — shall we say a vision? — it may 
be, for the beautiful visions come to us when we spend a silent Hour 
Alone, when inquisitive thought roams fancy free, and wanders back 
along the dim and half forgotten past, grapples with and strives to 
solve the problems of the present, and reaches out to speculate upon 
a future that is so mercifully hidden from our foolish inquisitiveness. 
And so in this silent hour came to us a vision of "The Hebrew 
Mother," that intensely human Hebrew mother, whose act of moral 
heroism can never be forgotten so long as other human mothers clasp 
to loving bosoms a first-born child, and as she rocks and croons in 



I 



206 OUR HOUR ALONE 

lullaby as sweet, as pure, as holy as angel's song, and realizes the 
rebellion that slumbers in her heart, ready to wake and defy a world, 
if called to give up her precious child, a vision of that Hebrew mother 
whose simple story, as told in holy writ, inspired our own sweet, sad, 
pathetic Mrs. Hemans to write the touehingly beautiful stanza that 
heads this Hour Alone. 

0, what does the world not owe to sweet, loving, hoping, trusting, 
self-denying motherhood! Let those who hope to comprehend the 
simple story born of this Hour Alone, turn to the opening chapter of 
"The First Book of Samuel," and there read the brief history of 
Hannah, and then you will realize the noble self-sacrifice of her, whose 
son made in after years, such an impression upon a nation wonderful 
in its effect upon the civilizations of all time. 

Samuel was an answer to prayer: '*And she bare a son and called 
his name Samuel, saying, 'because I have asked him of the Lord.' " 
When the child was weaned she took him and brought him to Eli, and 
left him there as she quaintly expressed it, "Lent him to the Lord." 
Were it my purpose to do so, I would ask the mothers of the present 
time, the mothers who will read this unpretentious recital in the 
Banner, to put themselves in Hannah's place; what would it be to you 
to give up that dear first-born boy? Could you make the sacrifice this 
Hebrew mother did, and as you kissed your child, and turned your 
halting steps back to a desolate home could you break forth in songs 
of praise as did Hannah, the wondrous Hebrew mother? 

But this is not my present intent. As I sit here, one sentence 
comes to me from the words spoken by the Hebrew mother. If you 
turn to the Book, you will find it in the twenty-seventh verse of the 
first chapter and the first clause of the verse. It is, "For this child 
I prayed." Who doubts the truth of this statement? Where is the 
skeptic so bold in unbelief, so reckless, so fool-hardy, as to deny the 
absolute truth of this declaration of the Hebrew mother? It is verified 
in the heart of every mother, stretching back in history, from Hannah 
clasping the babe Samuel, to that ecstatic hour when Eve clasped to 
her heart in fond embrace the infant Cain, and the birth of a maternal 
love that has in it so much of the love divine that it can never be 
quenched, but will survive the wreck of worlds. It is verified in the 
life of every mother who has lived since Hannah's time, down to the 
young mother, who, while we write, clasps in her arms of love her 
new-born child, and with its birth realizes the birth of a love immortal. 
No child was ever born, no child ever will be born, but what its mother 
can say, "I prayed for this child." There can be no doubt as to this, 
there can be no skepticism. It is a truth that forces recognition, that 
every mother has prayed for her child. There is not a child, not a 
youth, not a young man, not an old man, in Yates City tonight, but 



it I 



OUR HOUR ALONE 207 

some mother can say, "I prayed for this child." Oh ! child, so thought- 
less, so forgetful, be sure a mother is praying for you; and youth, so 
fretful of restraint, so eager to try the devious ways of life, a mother 
is praying for you; young man, as you tonight are venturing on the 
dangerous ground, are dallying with the ways of sin, the primrose path 
that leads to destruction, remember a mother is in the agony of prayer 
for you. And you, young girl, all innocent as yet, but catching the 
first glimpse of the alluring light, where wisdom is blinded, and 
mother's advice begins to be unheeded, it is your salvation that mother 
is praying for you. If a son attains an honorable place a mother has 
prayed for him. If a daughter has become a power for good, a mother 
has prayed for her. If a son has fallen to the lowest, vilest level, a 
mother prays for him. If a daughter has become an outcast, a mother 
prays for her. "I have prayed for this child," is the voice of every 
mother heart, and only eternity will reveal to us our indebtedness to 
a mother's prayer. 

Dear readers, you have the thoughts of another Hour Alone, and 
as I say good night, I place before you another stanza of Mrs. Heman's 
inspired by this Hebrew mother, and showing the farewell to her 
child : 

"Therefore farewell — I go, my soul may fail me 

"As the hart panteth for the water brooks, yearning for thy sweet looks. 

But then, my first, droop not, nor bewail me; 

Thou in the shadow of the rock shalt dwell; 

The rock of strength. Farewell." 

Changes 

Everything changes. Only God is the same forever. Not one 
created thing but is subject to mutations. Nor do they for a single 
moment remain the same. The sun and all the complex system of suns 
change. The earth and the multiform planets circling in space change. 
Man too, changes, as do all the purposes and acts originating with 
him. Not only do material objects change, but mind changes as well. 
This being true, it follows that no system of human government can 
be stable. 

All changes are gradual, and not abrupt. Systems, suns, planets, 
atoms, make their changes imperceptibly. Silently as the stars circle 
in the blue dome of heaven, noiselessly as the modest violet springs 
from the bosom of the cold earth, mute as the pale lips of the dead, 
still as the confines of a world without atmosphere, and dumb as the 
throats of tongueless marble statues, are the transformations that are 
continually going on about us in the material universe. Just as silent, 



208 OUR HOUR ALONE 



I 



noiseless, mute and still are the changes in the mind of man. But 
just so sure as the former occur, do the latter take place. 

Ignorance looks out over the material world, and asserts that it 
is always the same; Science casts her well trained eye over the same 
world and declares that the term ''Semper Idem" can only be applied 
to Deity. Ignorance says this body has not changed since yesterday; 
Science proves that in seven years it will be an entirely new organism. 
Ignorance casts aside the rough diamond as useless; Science picks it 
up, polishes it, and it is a sparkling gem. Ignorance looks on the 
wounded man and guesses that he will die ; Science goes to work and 
applies her knowledge of surgery, and the man is saved. Ignorance 
sees the level stretches of prairie, and at once concludes that for lack 
of fuel they will not be habitable; Science delves into the bowels of 
the earth beneath those prairies and finds millions of bushels of coal, 
and the plowshare is soon turning the sod, while farm house, hamlet, 
village, town and city spring forth as if commanded by the voice of 
magic. Ignorance, while digging for water, strikes the crude ore, but 
thinks it too far beneath the surface, and too full of base alloy ; Science 
assumes it can be utilized, puts in the machinery, hoists the ore, 
crushes, separates the dross, shapes the bar, forges it into the reaper, 
and sends it forth to relieve man from the drudgery of the harvest 
field. Ignorance casts a contemptuous glance at the wild broncho and 
is satisfied that it is but a sorry brute ; Science lassoes it, breaks it, 
breeds it with skill and trains it with care, and the result is to be seen 
in such wonderful records as that of Maud S., St. Julian, Jay Eye See 
and Johnson. Ignorance scalds its hand with the escaping steam from 
the tea-kettle ; Science harnesses it to the car, and causes it to propel 
the largest ship. Ignorance sees the zigzag lightning's flash, and is in 
terror ; Science brings it down to the earth, tames it, and sends it speed- 
ing over continents and flashing around the world. 

Science is but a change from ignorance, and in that change is 
found the all of what is known as human progress, and human hap- 
piness as well. To aid, assist and accelerate this change school houses 
are put up at the cross roads and churches lift up their glittering spires 
toward the throne of the Eternal. To facilitate this change the mis- 
sionary goes forth, denying himself the common comforts of life, and 
good men and women are making daily sacrifices. It is the duty of 
church and state, of government and people, of press and pulpit to 
bring it about, and in order that we too, may contribute our humble 
mite we send forth the thoughts of this silent hour, hoping that some 
of them may touch a responsive chord in the heart of the generous, 
patient reader. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 209 

They Visit Us in Dreams 

"The departed! the departed! 
They visit us in dreams, 
And glide above our memories 
Like shadows over streams." 

It was thus wrote Park Benjamin. There are some few favored 
ones who can not understand this quotation. It is beyond their com- 
prehension, because they lack the experience necessary to enable them 
to understand it. That experience comes to us only when the shadow 
of death has crept across the threshold of our own homes and stilled 
forever on earth the voice that was very music to our ears. There 
are but a few who have not seen this shadow creeping stealthily, 
slowly, surely, cruelly and irresistibly into their dwelling places to 
take from them the veriest treasures of their hearts. At first it was 
a dim shadow, almost imperceptible, and scarcely would it be ad- 
mitted that it was a shadow. The sun of life of a loved one might 
not be shining as brightly as was its won't, but surely it was but a 
vapor, a passing fog whose obscuring traces would quickly vanish, 
leaving the brightness more effulgent by the contrast. It would cer- 
tainly be gone on the morrow. But when the morrow came, there was 
the shadow, a little deeper, a trifle darker, and certainly somewhat 
nearer. And after that, to paraphrase slightly : 

Each tomorrow 
Found it nearer than today. 

These tomorrows lengthened into weeks and months — it may have 
been even into years — before the shadow covered the disc of the life 
of the loved one in the gloom of the eternal eclipse. How hope, so con- 
fident at first, lost courage, and fear crept in to murder peace and 
terrorize the soul. How did doubt, compelled to speak at last, make 
known to other friends — in whispers what it dare not speak aloud — 

that 

"She we loved. 

And vainly strove with heaven to save, 

Heard the low call of death and moves 

With holy calmness toward the grave" — 

that she we idolized is slipping away from us, and will soon disappear 
in the thick mists that envelop the farther end of the bridge on which 
we are all crossing the valley. The hope that changed to fear has 
changed again to certainty, dread certainty, and in despair the inevit- 
able end is awaited. Love has not been able to hide our idol from the 
searching gaze and the ruthless hammer of the great iconoclast that 
we call death. Skill has mixed the potent draught that love so fondly 
hoped would prove the elixir of life, and skill has failed completely. 



210 O UR HOUR ALONE 

The shadow creeps on and on, and it hangs, a drapery of darkness 
over every avenue of life and shutting the door of the citadel, locks it 
so securely that only the hand of Omnipotence can ever again turn it 
upon its hinges, and she who so bravely fought for life, who contested 
every inch so determinedly and disputed so strenuously every vantage 
ground, whose every defeat but nerved for a more stubborn resistance, 
wasted, worn, until relatives are in anguish, friends weep and enemies 
pity, speaks the last word, gives the last assurance of a love over 
which death has no control, and which cannot be destroyed, says in 
feeble, faltering tones, "It is growing dark," draws a few labored 
breaths, sinks to the calm repose of death and leaves us weeping over 
a casket that the shadow has robbed of the jewel we prized. 

Dear reader, this is no romance. If you do not realize its reality, 
then are you indeed favored, but you can not comprehend the full 
meaning of the quotation at the head of this article. But we know 
that the great majority have gone through this experience, and know 
whereof we speak, and can, in their own selves, verify the truth of 
the poet's words. 

James Montgomery felt that such an experience was practically 
universal when he wrote that exquisite little poem so filled with com- 
fort and hope for mourners, beginning: 

"Friend after friend depart, 
Who has not lost a friend? 
There is no union here of hearts, 
That finds not here an end." 

In these experiences the sympathy of friends who gather about 
us, is very comforting, and we realize that sympathy marks, in the 
most positive way the difference between man and the lower animals. 
But sympathy alone cannot close the ducts of human sorrow. Time 
only can soothe grief to a tender recollection. And even time, while 
it heals, is not able to hide the scars where sorrow has blistered the 
heart. 

Nor do we wish to be divorced from this sorrow. It is true, as has 
been so beautifully expressed in a poem written by the late Robert 
McKeighan, a brother of the writer, when, in speaking of the fact that 
time robs grief of tears, he says : 

"Is it that in a time so brief 
They'll have no tears to give? 
No; grief, in time, is tearless grief, 
'Tis fame alone will live." 

And so time does rob sorrow of tears, but sorrow, when tearless, 
is not the less sorrow. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 211 



And how those who have gone out from our homes, from our lives, 
from the secret and sacred chambers of our hearts, not only 

"Visit us in dreams," 

but they are called back to us in the things that come to us in the 
duties of every-day life, it may be a flower, a picture, a book they 
prized, some bit of work they left unfinished, some chair they rested 
in, some gift they gave, some article of dress, a ring, a watch, a little 
shoe, a tress of hair of brown or raven black — you meet them every- 
where — mute, silent, appealing, they call back the dear ones, they 
dim your eye, though time has done its best to make your sorrow dry, 
with tears; tears that you shed and hide them from your veriest 
friends; tears that are witnesses that death can east no shadow over 
love, for love is immortal. 

Dear readers of the Banner, you have Our Hour Alone. If you 
have read it through, and not a tear has welled, then must it be that 
we have failed to paint the picture true, or else the grave hides not 
from you a form you loved and lost. 

How sweet to know that death but takes our jewels fair, and puts 
them in casket far more rare than that he plundered here, and that 
old time, the partner of death, moving with winged feet, will place 
those caskets in our reach. 

Faith and Duty 

"So near is grandeur to our dust, 
So near is God to man, 
When duty whispers 'lo! you must,' 
The youth replies 'I can.' " 

The path of duty is the road to right doing. The duty that lies 
nearest to us, that most nearly touches the little point of time that 
we can call our own, is the most important duty, whether it be a small 
or a great one. To do that duty, with a faith that our part is per- 
formed, and that others will as surely, as earnestly, as faithfully do 
their part, is the plan on which all enterprises must be carried for- 
ward. 

Faith and duty. Brave words, noble words. Believing and acting. 
How much these two words have to do with the every day lives of men 
and women. How faith urges on to duty; how duty plucks the rich 
fruits of belief. What faith we have in the promise of God that ''seed 
time and harvest time shall not fail," and what patience it gives us to 
clear away the forest, remove the stumps and roots, break up the 
stiff soil, crush the hard clods, smooth down the uneven surface, cast 
in the tiny seeds, and wait for the results. How faith drives us into 



212 U R HOUR ALONE 

the mountains to pick and drill and blast the stubborn rocks that hold 
in their flinty embrace the yellow metal we covet; how it nerves the 
arm to dig the shaft into the very bowels of the earth, and thence to 
drag up to the surface the fuel hidden there ages before when divine 
wisdom made preparation for man's future needs; how it urges the 
discoverer along unbeaten paths, over deserts of sand, fields of snow, 
along unknown rivers, and over trackless seas ; how it drives the nat- 
uralist out into the haunts of wild and savage beasts; how it urges 
the scientist, down among the rocks — the ribs of a universe — and up 
among the stars — rich gems set in a canopy of blue — and how he wrests 
the secrets of the former ages from these flinty albums, and reads the 
mysteries of divine wisdom in the twinkling sentinels that God has 
set to watch above a slumbering world. 

Here is tht. locomotive standing on the track in New York, coupled 
to a train loaded with people destined for San Francisco ; they have 
faith in every particle of the arrangements, from the wonderful piece 
of mechanism that is to move them, down to the iron spikes that hold 
the rails in place ; faith in the man at the throttle, the conductor, the 
operators at every station, the switch tenders, and every one of the 
large number that serve on the route. 

Here is the great steamship, the smoke pouring in great black 
masses from her huge funnels, ready to heave her anchor, cast off her 
mooring, and turn her prow toward the middle of an ocean. What 
faith in her timbers. In her engines, in her crew, in her commander, 
that silent man who paces the deck as you would go along the graveled 
walk in the garden. We little realize in the rush, and strife of exist- 
ence how much of faith we exercise. 

And duty is the result of faith. The duty of the child, the duty 
of the youth, the duty of the mature man, all must be met, must be 
faithfully performed. The duty of the neighbor, the friend, the citizen, 
the brother, the sister, the husband, the wife, the master, the servant. 
To know these and to be faithful in the doing, is to make organized 
societ.y. And let us here bear in mind that one of the important duties 
is obedience to law, to correct authority. The duty of obedience must 
begin in the family, and it must go up to the very crest of society, if 
man would be secure in life and property. The man who disregards his 
duty, and defies law is a dangerous character. He has no place in a 
republic. There is no room in America for the red flag, or the black 
flag, or any other flag but the stars and the stripes that symbolize our 
liberties. It is the duty of every man — his present duty — aye his 
sacred duty — to frown on every attempt to break down the bulwarks 
of society, or overthrow the laws that give to society its security, its 
safety, its prosperity. That is the safest and the best government 
whose people want all their own rights, and are willing to concede 



OUR HOUR ALONE 218 

the rights of others, to teach this, to inculcate it, to practice it is the 
highest social duty. And we can do this. 

Are We Forgotten? 

"Are we so soon forgotten when we're gone?" How this quaint 
but pertinent question forces itself on us all, obtruding like an unwel- 
come guest, or a poor relative, or a persistent creditor. Just when 
we are in no humor for it and would be busy along other lines of 
thought, it rises up before our mental vision as uncalled for as the 
widowed aunt who comes with her greatness of trunks, her profusion 
of satchels, her spectacles, her sniffle, peeking habit and her broad, 
deep, wide, vast, awful memory to torture you in the heat unbearable 
with the recital of the date of the birth, baptism, marriage, death and 
burial of all the family from Adam to Commodore Dewey. But like 
her the welcome makes little difference; like her the thought comes 
anyway, and as a matter of course, and it is heard, just as she is heard. 

The form we have given this disagreeable question — or rather 
that we present it in — is that of Washington Irving, but it is older 
than he ; he found it hoary with passing ages, and arrayed in frayed 
and moth eaten raiments, and he dressed it in new attire, and it so 
changed its appearance that some superficial observers still believe it 
the child of his brain. It is as old as man. It grew out of that innate, 
heaven-born repugnance that is in the mind of man against the theory 
of the annihilation of spirit, that is among the most conclusive proofs 
aside from those found in the Bible — of man's immortality that can 
be educed. 

It came to the dwellers in the far Orient, and the attempt to build 
the tower of Babel resulted, and out of it grew the diversity of lan- 
guages now in use in the world, including that wonderful conglomer- 
ation now used exclusively by our own famous fellow townsman, J. D. 
Truitt. 

To answer it the pyramids arose on the sands of Egypt, those 
structures that have been the wonder of all the succeeding ages. How 
many human lives they cost will not be known until the time comes 
when all secrets are revealed, but human life has always been held 
cheap when ambition aspired, and in this colossal work unkown thou- 
sands perished. 

The sphinxes, vast, grand, silent and imperturbable, are evidences 
that to their originators this query came, and perhaps the hope came 
that the answer would be enduring. 

It has come to the tyrant, and seas of blood have flowed; it has 
come to the historian, and volumes have grown into vast libraries; it 
has come to the scholar, and sleep fled from his weary and sore racked 



214 OUR HOUR ALONE 

aod perplexed brain ; it has come to the poet, and the beautiful flowers 
of language have been wreathed in bouquets of beauty that thrill man's 
deepest and purest nature; it has come to the painter, and his brush 
has made dull canvas speak in rapt and prophetic language, and en- 
tranced millions have bowed in silent and devout adoration before the 
triumph of his genius; it has come to the General and Ceesar crossed 
the Rubicon, Miltiades won glory at Marathon, Napoleon scaled the 
Alps, Wellington won at Waterloo, and Grant dictated terms of peace 
at Appomatox; it has come to the physician, and the hidden cause of 
human ills has been laid bare, and life disputes the royal prerogative 
of death ; it has come to the astronomer, and worlds are measured, and 
weighed, and named, and classified ; it has come to the discoverer, and 
the prows of frail ships have ploughed unknown and dangerous seas 
and grated on the sands of new and inhospitable shores ; it has come 
to the explorer, and the glaciers themselves, those cold, colossal, grand 
and silent sentinels placed at the threshold of the forbidden north by 
God himself, to curb man's restless spirit of enterprise have been 
passed, and many of the secrets they so sedulously guarded are known 
to man. 

The granite shafts, the marble slabs, the tapering monuments 
that rear themselves in the cemeteries where grasses grow, and flowers 
bloom, where evening's gentle zephyrs come to cool the throbbing 
brow of sorrow, as sad, sore hearts bend, bowed by earth's one uni- 
versal grief, over the mounds that cover the forms of the tender infant 
whose life went out like a taper, the prattling child whose sweet voice 
will nevermore be heard, the loving brother, firm and noble, the sister, 
loving and forgiving, the wife trusting and true, the husband noble 
and brave, the father loved and revered, the mother whose love — spark 
of the fire divine — death hides but quenches not — these all are feeble 
answers made by man to this same query, "Are we so soon forgotten 
when we're gone?" 

And yet we die and are forgotten, and that very soon. These feet 
of ours tread over graves of millions, dead and — forgotten. 

"Those who tread the earth are but a handful 
To those who slumber in its bosom." 

Thus sang America's greatest poet, Bryant, in that matchless produc- 
tion, "Thanatopsis," and all of them forgotten. We tread the earth 
today, tomorrow we shall slumber in her bosom and be forgotten. 'Tis 
well if we can live so near the Savior's matchless model, that, dying, 
men and women, yea, and little children may gather about the casket 
where we lie, and say "He s^ave when want did cry, wiped sorrow's 
tear away, spoke words of comfort to the hopeless ones, fought bravely 
in the battle with the world, was fair and just to all, trusted in God, 
and will be missed before he is forgotten." 



U R HOUR ALONE 21B 

Dear readers of the Banner, the brain child born of another Hour 
Alone we place before you, and while we trust it may incite to deeper 
thought, and higher purpose, and purer life, we hope it may receive as 
flattering a welcome as have some of its processors, and so we bid you 
all good night. 

Life Is a Revelation 

Life is a revelation. The passing years, with their experiences, 
give us new capacities. We fully understand some things, better un- 
derstand others, and begin to comprehend some that in earlier years 
we absolutely knew nothing about. Love is but an abstract principle 
until it finds lodgment in our own heart; death is an unmeaning word 
to us except it has come to put the seal of silence on the lips that we 
have fondly kissed; weariness is an idle tale to those who have never 
put forth an exertion; loneliness is a fable to those who have always 
reveled in company; solitude is not realized by one who has never 
been alone. 

Childhood is a revelation; youth is but an unfolding; the parent's 
home is the great school. But we go out of these and begin a home of 
our own; there are but two; neither is wise or experienced, but there 
is something about this stage of life that is rather fanciful than real. 
It can not be told, yet every couple has sat there and realized the 
looking back to the old life, and forward into the new. Those who 
have not reached this point are not competent to realize it. But 
presently the two are no longer alone; there is one, two, three, per- 
haps a half dozen children to share — or shall we not rather say to 
make — the joys and the sorrows of home. Who knows the lifting up 
of the floodgates of paternal affections as child after child troops in 
to enlarge the family circle ? Only those who have had that experience. 
Who knows the joys, and sorrows, and hopes, and fears, and anxieties 
that crowd the parent's heart as these children grow from helpless 
infancy to the strength and vigor of mature years? Only those who 
have had such experience. 

How is the heart wrung when one of these precious little ones 
dies? It is useless to ask except you have stood and looked down 
into the grave that is to hide your own little darling. 

But time goes on; the years roll by; there are no longer babes 
in the house ; there are boys tall as father ; there are girls whose heads 
are on a level with that of mother. Processes in life, as in nature, 
repeat themselves, and one child goes out to found a home for itself. 
What were the feelings on this occasion? No use to elaborate it, let 
experience answer. One goes out into the world here, another there, 
one for one purpose, another for an entirely different one, and thus 
some day there is a wonderful stillness in the house, and but the 



i 



216 OUR HOUR ALONE 

original two are at the table, and gather around the evening lamp. 
What are the thoughts, the feelings, the emotions of the father as he 
looks into the face of the mother and realizes that the children are 
gone — not for a visit — but never to return except as visitors? What 
are the thoughts, the feelings, the emotions that stir the heart of the 
mother as she looks across the table into the face of her husband, 
and realizes that they are just where they were thirty years before, 
only that then they had youth and hope, while now they have but 
age and experience? 

There are many readers of the Banner who will see in this article 
nothing beyond an effort to fill an empty column ; but there are many 
others who will be reminded of that sad, silent, thoughtful time when 
they ate the first meal alone after the last of the children had gone 
out from the home circle to buffet the rough waves on life's sea, 
and as they lay aside the spectacles by the aid of which they have 
been enabled to read it, a tell-tale moisture will dim the glasses, and 
a tear that recollection has started from the fount of feeling will 
glisten, gem like, among the wrinkles on their cheeks. 

These experiences appeal to our noblest sympathy, stir the better 
nature within us, and emphasize the opening sentence of this Hour 
Alone, viz, that life is a revelation. 

Dear readers, you whose kindred experiences enable your hearts to 
beat responsive to that of the writer, may God bless you. Good night. 

Primitive Homes 

Elegant surroundings do not make a home. They may, and often 
do, enhance the beauty of it. But humble conditions do not destroy 
homes. Let us rejoice that the dearest word but one that falls on 
human ears, and thrills our human hearts is not beholden to station, 
wealth, nor to anything external, 

A primitive log cabin in a dense pine forest — so dense that the 
logs are all cut on the lot where it is erected — has been put up. The 
logs are unhewn, and the corners are not squared, nor is the rough 
bark taken off. There are ten logs on a side, up to the gable ends. 
The rafters are saplings, laid lengthwise of the building. The roof 
is of rough slabs, laid two together, with a third laid to cover the 
crack between the two. To hold them in place poles are laid across 
some three feet apart, and supported by rests extending from one to 
another at either end. The floor is like the roof, only laid with the 
other side up, and the slabs straightened with a common chopping ax. 
A space is left at one end for the chimney, and the hearth is made 
of clay tamped down with a heavy rammer. The chimney is of slabs, 
made precisely like the old ash hopper of primitive Illinois days, only 



OUR HOUR ALONE 217 

inverted, and coming down only to the mantle, and finished from the 
roof up with sticks laid in clay. A crane is fastened to the jam, and 
three pot hooks are pendant from it. The cupboard is made by boring 
auger holes in the logs, driving wooden pins in, and laying boards 
across them. The bedsteads were made in a similar manner, only 
with a rough post set on the floor and fastened to the pins. The 
seats were slabs cut in lengths of two feet, and legs inserted in auger 
holes bored in the under side. The chinks between the logs were 
daubed with clay, and the interior whitewashed with the same ma- 
terial — always obtained by digging the well, which is not walled. 
Water is drawn by a sweep — made by setting a post forked at the 
top, in the ground, and fastening a long pole to this fork with the 
heavy end down, and the bucket fastened to a slim pole pendant from 
the light end. In some cases the well had a slab curb placed around 
the top, but mostly it was absent. The cabin door, for there was but 
one, is hung on wooden hinges, and fastened by wooden latch, a leather 
string hanging on the outside to lift it out of the hasp. A dutch 
oven sits on the hearth, or rather a three legged iron skillet, with an 
iron lid covered with live coals when short-cake was baked. There is 
an oven in the yard made by setting four forked sticks in the ground, 
placing stringers on them, covering them with sticks laid close to- 
gether, covered with clay, then with wood builded on this make an 
oval pile of straight cord wood, covering it with clay and then burning 
out the wood and leaving the heat hardened clay standing. The door 
is in one end, and is closed with a board made to fit and held in place 
l)y a prop placed against it. When ready to bake the oven is filled 
with dry wood, which is burned to coals, which are drawn out, the 
Tjread put in — sometimes a dozen loaves — the door closed and held in 
place by a prop, and in one hour the bread is nicely done. 

This is not a fancy sketch. The writer lived in such a home fifty 
years ago, near Millville, New Jersey, in Cumberland county, and there 
were hundreds of them, identical in every particular, in which lived 
the strong and hardy men who at that time made charcoal for the 
iron furnace at Millville. 

And they were happy homes. True there was toil, but there was 
enjoyment and contentment, and love, and these are all there is in life 
worth the struggle. 

We remember standing under the giant pines, and looking up to 
their bending tops, and wondering if the moaning of the wind through 
their tassellated branches was not the voice of that great God of 
whom we had learned as we kneeled beside our mother's knee and 
repeated after her that simple but sublime prayer which Christ taught 
his disciples. 



218 U R HOUR ALONE 

Impressions 

It is curious to notice how the sight of some object will call up 
a particular memory. A boy was attacked by a vicious dog, the 
animal seizing him in such a way that the point of the chin was in 
the dog's mouth, and one of the tusks cut through just below the 
front teeth. The boy had heard of persons getting hydrophobia from 
the bite of a dog, and it made a deep impression on his mind, though 
the dog was not mad, and no bad results followed. But in going 
through the heavy pine timber, to and from his daily labor, he had 
to pass an old by-road — that had been used at one time in hauling wood 
— and the incident of the attack of the dog flashed through his mind, 
and he was speculating on the possibility of its being mad. The 
next time he came to the old by-road precisely the same train of 
thought came to him, and ever afterward the sight of the road would 
call up the identical associations, until it became extremely disagree- 
able — in fact a very mental misery — and he gave it the name of Mad 
Dog Road. After several years he left that part of the country for 
the west, and it was an actual relief that he was no longer obliged 
to pass the now thoroughly detested road. But he never got rid of 
the hateful memory, and in old age the picture of the road will 
intrude itself upon him like some ghost that will not be at rest, and 
every time the appearance calls up the old mental agony. 

This is only one case, while many might be given, and no doubt 
those who read this will recall some personal experience that is similar, 
and as distinctly marked as this one. 

It is related of a man, that when a mere boy — not over ten years 
of age — and was just beginning to be impressed by the stupendous 
fact of the existence of a God, that he dreamed one night that he saw 
an immense ladder — with rounds that were ten or twelve yards long — 
slanting, up toward heaven, and that God himself stood at the top, 
while he tried to climb toward Him, but the ladder was steep, and as 
he ascended a round was missing, then two, and sometimes more, and 
there was something about the appearance of the Deity that filled him 
with awe, while he could get no clear or well defined idea of the 
shape or form, and he became so awe-stricken that he awoke with a 
feeling of solemn dread, and while he tried to believe it was but a 
dream, he never could forget it, and never recalled it without a feeling 
of sacred awe that made him reluctant to think of it, and adverse to 
talk of it, and yet it so impressed him that from that day forward 
he never had the shadow of a doubt of the existence of God. 

It may be said by some that he had been studying that subject, 
that it was the mystery he was trying to solve, that he had been reading 
the story of Jacob's ladder, and hence the dream. Granted that this, 
is all true, and then we may ask why this one particular dream so 



OUR HOUR ALONE 219 

affected him? Has there nothing similar entered into your own ex- 
perience? May this not have been a vision, and may not God have 
appeared to the untutored boy as he lay in his humble cabin home, 
as truly as he came to Abraham, to Jacob, to Moses or to Samuel? 

There are poems that are never read without calling up recollec- 
tions that are supposed to have been sepulchered for all time. There 
is that beautiful and pathetic poem by Cora M. Eager, entitled, "Will 
The New Year Come Tonight Mamma?" If you have not read it, 
hunt it up and do so at once; it will not be time lost; you may find 
it on page 266 of ' ' Crown Jewels, ' ' a book that is in many homes, and 
should be in all. It will impress you, if there be a true and tender 
side to your nature — and we sincerely hope there is — for it is ten- 
derly touching and pathetic. It always carries one person back along 
the flight of years a quarter of a century; it brings up a vision of 
a flaxen haired girl who learned this poem to "speaJs;" at the Friday 
afternoon exercises at school. She was ten years old then. She lived 
ten years more, and — the flowers have bloomed and faded above her 
for almost as long. What air castles took form in the mind of the 
parent as he heard her declaim the piece time after time, as he 
thought of the future and pictured her in her maturity, an 
educated, true and noble hearted woman, Alas! all our dreams 
do not come to us in the night. Then one night, when she was 
chided because she failed in the proper inflection, the tears 
dimmed her large lustrous eyes and bent the long lashes down 
on her cheeks, and she strove to keep back the great sobs that would 
come — Oh! how the bereaved heart goes out in gratitude to God that 
there are no wrong inflections in heaven — and no tears, Happy years 
passed afterward in watching her unfold into the bloom of woman- 
hood — thanks to that veil which God's wisdom has placed in front of 
us to hide the future from our view — and then the insidious hand of 
the destroyer was laid upon her, and her young life went out — just 
as that of the boy in the poem does — before the New Year came. But 
every time the parent may chance or choose to read the poem the pic- 
ture of the flaxen haired girl reciting it as her school task comes up 
as if it were but yesterday. 

Nor is this an isolated case. Among those who will read this 
will be some who have — not the same poem perhaps — but some poem 
that, reading, the locks of memory are forced back, and out from 
sacred niches in memory's halls some picture such as this is taken, 
and they are gazed upon as misers gaze on gold, and bowed before 
with reverence devout as Roman to his saint, bathed in the sacred 
flood that wells from sorrow's font, and then we lay them by, relock 
the doors that hide them from our view, and wonder how those tell- 
tale tears could wash such furrows on our cheeks. If all the book of 



220 OUR HOUR ALONE 



life were open at the first, then who could live in joy? But turning 
as it does, page after page, and but one page at once, we suffer and 
endure. And this is well, for memory never dies, and though at times 
she may seem recreant to her trust, yet ever with her sure revolving 
wheel, she brings our sorrows and our joys before us once again. 

"The New Year comes — good night, mamma, 'I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray the Lord' — tell dear papa — 'my precious soul to keep; 
If I' — how cold it seems — how dark — kiss me — I cannot see. 
The New Year comes to-night, mamma, the old year dies with me." 

A Spring Journey 

Did you ever undertake a journey at a time when some sorrow 
weighed you down? Perhaps it was in the joyous spring time. 
Nature, at that season, has little akin to sadness in it, if we judge 
from outward appearance. The long, dreary, cheerless, uninviting and 
tedious winter is over. The balmy south winds have melted the icicles, 
and released the streams. They have come with breath of warmth to 
waken to life the trees and plants and flowers. On the sunny slopes 
the earlier spring flowers have bloomed, and, in that blooming made 
glad the heart of age, stirred with noble purpose the breast of youth, 
and brought a momentary forgetfulness of pain to the wasting invalid, 
whose tired, feeble body will rest under the flowers of another season, 
and whose soul, let us hope, will be complete in the joys of a higher 
life, and whose angel feet will press the fairer flowers that bloom on 
the shores of Paradise. The trees have changed. A marvelous change 
it is, too. But a short time ago they stood, great naked sentinels, 
around the dwellings of man. Dead they seemed to us, and all bereft 
of beauty. But now they have felt the magic touch of a hand of 
Power, and the life giving current has sought the highest limbs, and 
swelled the tips of the outer sprays into buds, that, in turn, have 
burst into the tiny leaf, and now in the freshness of a new life, they 
stand out to baffle our feeble attempts to solve the mystery of their 
awakening, and to challenge our admiration for a beauty that no 
artist, how-so-e'er skilled his hand, has ever yet been able to transmit 
to canvas. 

The grass is "creeping, creeping everywhere"; already it is a 
velvet carpet that no loom — not even those of Brussels — can surpass. 
The birds twitter in the new found freedom of a land that has been 
forbidden for a season. The ephemeral insects hum on lazy wing 
amid the tepid noon. The lambs are frisking on the sunny slopes. 
The cattle rest, in sleep content, on grassy knolls. The bright sun- 
shine is flecked with here and there a cloud that seems to float forever 
on. We have been drinking in the inspiration of such a scene, uncon- 



OUR HOUR ALONE 221 

sciously becoming invigorated by it, and are just wondering if a fierce 
breath from the vigorous north will come to nip the beauty of our 
landscape, and cause it to recede imperceptibly from our reach, as 
the loved one, smitten by the relentless hand, fades from among us, 
and lives only as a pleasing recollection — for we are in that peculiar 
geographical location, where, for a time, in the glad spring time, a 
breath of icy touch comes from the glaciers of the north, or sultry 
breezes from the south, bearing the fragrance of the orange grove may 
come. 

Our day dream is disturbed. A careless message boy places in 
our hand an envelope; a glance reveals the "Western Union," and we 
open it — with that peculiar mingling of hope and fear characteristic 
of those who seldom get such missives, — to find it is a call to the bed 
side of a friend whose love we prize above the things of time. The 
message has come from southern lands, and in as brief a time as pos- 
sible we are on the platform, pacing with that aimless yet uneasy 
stride that marks the one who is anxious to be gone, and yet must 
await the advent of the delayed train. But it comes ; we step on 
board ; the whistle sounds two sharp, short notes, the hissing monster 
moves, the grinding wheels acquire momentum, and soon we find the 
landscapes changing, like the figures in the kalideoscope. Here it is 
a ridge of broken hills; there it is a snug farm residence indicative 
of thrift and comfort ; again it is a shimering stream spanned by a 
covered bridge ; now it is a forest rich in wealth of noble trees. We 
drink in the beauty of the scene but wonder the while what errand 
called our fellow travelers forth; have they, too, started in obedience 
to such a sad request? Ah, well! 'tis better, perhaps, that no device 
of man has ever yet divined a human thought. The night comes on; 
we glide along, new constellations telling us of miles that we have 
passed. The morning comes ; we note a change ; a pine is here and 
there; the dark cedar mingles with the foliage; strange forms of 
trees appear. The train speeds on, and added miles show more and 
more change of scene, and every change speaks more of earthly beauty. 
Here are the trees of larger growth. Here, too, the flowers of brighter 
hue; and here the birds of more beautiful plumage. The sun is shin- 
ing with a brightness new to us. For a moment we catch a glimpse 
of a little white church, and near it a small enclosure, marked with 
marble slabs that mark the sacred dust of those who in the bygone 
years have laid the heavy burden down, to rest in sweet repose. 

The sight awakens us to a full sense of the object of our visit 
here. We are nearing our destination ; we are anxious to be there ; 
but who will dare to say that we have less enjoyed the grander scenes 
of nature from the fact that deeply in our heart a sorrow lingered. 



222 OUR HOUR ALONE 



Nay, rather has it not given a charm to pleasing scenes that nothing 
else could give? 

How fared it with our friend? It matters not. The strongest 
man must die. We did not start to tell you of his fate. Nor did we 
mean to reach for something new or strange. But we did mean to 
call you back to some event of life that gave you equal share of pain 
and joy. If in the backward glance a real pleasure shows, pleasing, 
though sad, we rest content. 

God's Religion 

It is impossible to listen to the cold, bleak, howling winds of 
winter, and not think of the poor. There are so many of them, and 
their needs are so patent that we may not forget them, even if we 
would. It is all well enough to let our sympathies go out toward 
them. It is well to say that we feel sorry for them. But this is not 
enough. This will not relieve their suffering, assuage their grief or 
sooth their sorrows. 

Christian sympathy is good, but Christian charity is infinitely bet- 
ter. It is good to pray, but it is far better to act. Paul, the great 
argumentative apostle, has said, "Charity covereth a multitude of 
sins." No doubt the logical mind of the celebrated expounder of 
faith to the gentiles, was conscious of the vast superiority of doing, 
over talking. He was not one of those who would say, "Be ye warmed 
and fed"; but rather "Let me warm and feed you." 

So far as our observation goes, the majority of people are but 
little given to deeds of charity except there is something to be gained 
by them. This may seem a cynical statement, but it is true. Advice 
is cheap, and much of it is given. It has been held that religion costs 
nothing, and most people are ready to give it away. And religion is 
good, in its place. That no one may have reason to find fault on this 
matter, the statement is made that we believe in revealed religion. 
Not in some theory that emanates from the unsettled brain of some 
vain man who sets his knowledge, his wisdom, his experience, his 
opinions up in opposition to God; but we believe in the religion of 
the good old fashioned Bible — not in a part of it — but in it all from 
alpha to omega, from Genesis to Revelations. But the religion that 
we find there is practical; it has to do with the every day life of 
men, women and children. It contemplates heat, cold, hunger, naked- 
ness, poverty, vice, crime, want, woe, misery, accident, disease, sick- 
ness, death. It is not ideal, but literal. God's religion not only reaches 
out the hand to grasp that of a fellow mortal in need, but it puts that 
hand into our pocket, and if anything be there, it conveys it into the 
custody of that needy one. God's religion will not let its votaries 



OUR HOUR ALONE 228 

rest when they have prayed, "Oh Lord, bless the poor, the needy, the 
oppressed, the suffering condition of man everywhere." But it bids 
them go out and find the poor, the needy, the oppressed and the suffer- 
ing, and relieve their wants. God's religion never teaches us to in- 
quire how the man came into such a plight; it does not enjoin us to 
ask if he belongs to our faith, our church, our communion; it does 
not even ask us to know that he is a believer at all. But it does com- 
mand us to do what we can to better his condition. 

If you find such don't stop to speculate on whether they are 
worthy or not; how they came to be so; why God did not make them 
different. It is none of your business. Don't stop to convert them 
to Christianity. But if they are cold, warm them; if they are naked, 
clothe them; if they are hungry, feed them. Fuel, food, clothing, 
shelter ; these come first. After that, tell about the excellency of God, 
the beauty of religion, the joy of believing, the efficacy of prayer, 
the power of faith. A sack of flour for the widow, a warm dress 
for the orphan, a comfortable shelter for the perishing, these things 
God has put it in your power to give. 

If you carry something to eat in one hand and the Bible in the 
other, offer the eatables first, and the offer of the Bible will be none 
the less appreciated because it came last. But don't mock human 
suffering by telling of the warmth of Heaven, to those who are freez- 
ing; don't mention the bread of life to those who are starving; don't 
offer the robe of Christ's righteousness to those who are in rags. Show 
to those poor, unfortunates that you have learned the spirit as well 
as the letter of that gospel that emanated from Him who went about 
doing good, healing the sick, opening the eyes of the blind and minis- 
tering to the wants of the poor, the humble, the despised. 

When the thermometer is below zero, and the bitter blasts surge 
over the bleak, bare hills, would that we could realize the sublime 
beauty of that inimitable parable of the judgment in which Christ 
says to His astonished people who are before Him for judgment : 

''Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, come, 
ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from 
the foundation of the world. For I was an hungered, and ye gave me 
meat. I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and 
ye took me in; naked, and ye clothed me; I was in prison, and ye 
came unto me. Then shall the righteous answer him, saying. Lord, 
when saw we thee an hungered, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave 
thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or 
naked, and clothed thee? Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, 
and came unto thee? And the King shall answer and say unto them, 
verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the 
least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. ' ' 



224 OU R HOUR ALONE 

When we have learned the full strength and beauty of this quota- 
tion, which may be found in the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, 34, 
35, 36, 37, 38, 39, and 40th verses, inclusive, we will be able to realize 
what is our duty as Christians, toward those who are in poverty, 
during this severe weather. 

The Truly Great 

It is absolutely true that "There is no royal road to eminence." 
Akin to this is the declaration that "There is no excellence without 
great labor." It is true that some are born with "A silver spoon 
in their mouth ' ' ; but it is also true that it is of no practical benefit 
to them. When we read the history of the past, and particularly the 
biographies of the eminent men and women, we are too apt to con- 
clude that they somehow drifted into prominence ; that they were car- 
ried on "flowery beds of ease," and that there was no plan in their 
lives; no perplexities, no struggle, no dark hours, no mountains to 
climb, no rugged roads to pass over. But this is a mistake. Every 
one of those have won their way up from obscurity until they forced 
recognition from those who were none too ready to bestow it. Abra- 
ham, and Joseph, Moses, Joshua, David, Solomon, Daniel, Nehemiah, 
Peter, John, Paul, Lycurgus, Draco, Solon, Miltiades, Aristides, 
Themistocles, Cyrus, Artaxerxes, Philip, Alexander, Romulus, Hanni- 
bal, Cffisar, Mohammed, Columbus, Penn, Magellan, Cabot, Luther, Crom- 
well, Peter, Franklin, LaFayette, Napoleon, Wellington, Washington, 
Lincoln, Douglas, Grant, Logan, and a host of others we fail to recall, 
have all earned their places in history. 

Then we might turn to that greater number whose lives are just 
as verily those of the hero, but who have not arisen from obscurity — 
for we are firmly persuaded that the great array of heroes are not so 
much as mentioned — and we find that all of them have grown into 
themselves, labored for what they earned, toiled for what they ob- 
tained, and not a single one of them has attained enduring fame with- 
out an effort. 

These roads are still open. No avenue to human preferment has 
ever closed ; no obstruction is there today that has not always existed. 
There are as many great minds now living and active as there ever 
has been. There will be such in all the succeeding ages of the world's 
history. But let us here note a very important fact. All great men 
are not good men. Nero was a great man ; but who does not execrate 
his memory? Pizarro was a renowned conquerer; but the mention of 
Athualapa must forever call to mind his perfidy. Cortez lives in his- 
tory, but alas! so does Montezuma. 

Such have been called falsely great. We like that term. All 
greatness that lacks the element of goodness must be false. The man 



OUR HOUR ALONE 226 

who rides over the just rights of others in order to secure his own 
advancement is lacking in all that constitutes true greatness. 

Wisdom, zeal, courage, perseverence, knowledge, are some of the 
traits of character that push one to the front. But above all things 
it takes industry to make advancement. 

We must begin young. Time must not be wasted ; it is too precious 
to those who expect to succeed. Idleness must not be tolerated. The 
men who reach notoriety are busy men. There are idlers in school; 
as a rule they are never heard of beyond the school room. There are 
street corner loafers who spend days in whittling boxes and tie posts ; 
but who ever heard of them as being noted for anything else ? There 
are people who are fascinated by cards, or billiards, or base ball, 
or croquet; but there are few fascinated by their life history. 

Who has heard of Edison umpiring a base ball game? Robert 
Fulton never mourned because time hung heavily on his hands. Horace 
Greeley was not everlastingly brushing lint from his tailor cut suit. 
John Brown had no time to roll cigarettes. 

There will be great men yet, but they will be workers. God pity 
the man who has time to spare; on whose hands the days drag; who 
has to invent ways in which to amuse himself. While he is doing this 
he will find that somebody has gone on ahead. While he is idling 
some one has worked ; while he has been but a drone in the hive, others 
have gone out and laboriously gathered the sweet stores. 

Striving to excel; laboring to conquer; working to accomplish; 
seeking for the right road — these are the aims of those who would 
have a consciousness of duty done, and excellence attained. 

It is true all may not reach the top of the mountain of fame. 
But it is better that death find us somewhere on the acclivity, with 
resolution strong within us, than to me buried in the valley, with- 
out having made a single effort to reach the top. 

A Dirty Rag 

On Sunday morning one of the boarders at the Banner House, 
who. by the way, is of more than ordinary intelligence, whose travels 
have bt'en extensive, and whose observation has always led him to get 
the most information out of the opportunities that come under his 
scrutiny, was telling what a curious train of reflection was awakened 
in his mind on seeing an old decrepit looking woman picking rags out 
of the gutter with a hook made fast to the end of a long stick. We 
took so much interest in the story — or perhaps it was his apt way of 
relating it — but be that as it may, the theme kept recurring to us all 
day, and even after the lapse of another day spent in the busy rounds 
of those duties that press upon us, has failed to rid us of it, and so 



226 OUR HOUR ALONE 

it comes up to demand our attention as we sit here alone, the hands 
of the pleasant looking clock pointing to a quarter past twelve, the 
wind moaning with a solemn, dirge-like sound outside, and the close 
imitator, if not counterfeiter of death, sleep, having long since claimed 
nearly everyone as its victim. It is useless to attempt to fix our mind 
on some other theme, and so we will let thought roam fancy free, 
while we give to our indulgent readers — not the concoctions of our 
own brain, but a rehearsal of what our worthy friend so ardently 
related. 

This particular rag had once been a splendid piece of goods, and 
had perhaps attracted the attention of a handsome lady, who planned 
and schemed until she found a way to get it in her possession ! It 
is amusing to note the expression on her face as she turns the goods 
over and over, examines the texture, the strength, the color, the width ; 
then she contrasts the article with her peculiar east of complexion, 
and wonders how it will look with this hat, or those gloves, or that 
polonaise. Then she asks the price, and considers it dear, and fumbles 
in the little portmanteau to see if the money will permit her to buy 
it, and still leave her enough to get the proper and indispensable 
trimming. At last she completes the purchase, the fabric is neatly 
wrapped up, the money counted, the change given out, examined and 
put into the purse, and the ladj^ goes out, hugging the prized package 
to her dainty bosom. 

She is at home, and some one has been called, and the new goods 
are brought out and both look over them carefully, and compare notes, 
talk over the price, speculate on how it will look anyway, and finally 
decide that it is just splendid, and so becoming. Again we see her 
at a small table, wearing a half puzzled look, a fashion book is open 
before her, a pair of scissors are in her right hand, in a moment she 
cuts the goods into her favorite style, and sits down to ruffle, tuck, 
hem, stitch, baste, and sew, until it has assumed the proper shape. 
Now she is before the glass, with half her mind on the dress, and 
half — perhaps more — on a few stray freckles that she would give the 
world to get rid of. 

Again she is in the little dressing room, with several dresses 
before her, and among them the new one. Her choice is made and 
presently the splendid new garment is showing to the best advantage, 
a form that she — and perhaps others — think faultless. 

On her return how carefully she brushes and dusts it, and with 
what attention she smoothes out the creases, and lays it away in the 
best nook of the drawer. But days, weeks, months, and years, glide 
swiftly by and leave their traces even on this so diligently guarded 
treasure. It has been worn to balls and churches; it has been to the 
altar and the grave; it has shown at the party and rustled gently 



OUR HOUR ALONE 227 

by the bed side of the sick. But its beauty is faded, its richness gone, 
and she no longer worships it — yes that is the proper word — and she 
takes it down to the second hand store and barters it away out of 
her possession, and gives a sigh of relief to think that she will not 
have to wear "that horrid old thing again." 

A poor, hard working servant girl comes into the second hand 
store, and sees beauty in the slightly faded dress, and her admira- 
tion is kindled, and she buys it and goes forth not less proud of her 
purchase than the original owner was. 

In possession of a second woman, what countless changes it en- 
counters; what wonderful things it passes through, and with how 
much human history is it connected? 

But it wears out at last, and perhaps is stuck in the orifice left 
by a broken pane of glass, in order to keep out just such a blast as is 
howling outside as we write. Then it is fastened to a mop-stick and 
is used in the cleaning up of the dirtiest places, and at last is cast 
out and swept into the gutter. 

Then comes the decrepit old woman with her coarse gunny sack, 
her stick and hook, and her eyes glisten as she spies the treasure — 
to her. As we observe her another long train of reflections come 
before us, and we speculate on her history, and wonder about when 
she was a weenty little baby, then a shy little girl, a coy maiden, a 
mature woman. Was she always poor? Were her parents kind? Was 
she beautiful? Yes, she must have been, for even now, under these 
unfavorable circumstances there lingers some traces of loveliness. But 
it will not do to follow out her history ; it is but a speculation at best, 
for we will never know perhaps, whether she has come to her present 
condition through any fault of her own or not, and while conjecturing 
about it we are in danger of losing sight of the rag. 

We return to it, and follow it to the junk shop, see it loaded 
among hundreds of others of perhaps as interesting history, see it 
in the express wagon, the cars, the ship ; see it unloaded, re-expressed, 
put in the ware house, east into the tank, soaked, rinsed, pulped, 
passed through all the intricate processes, and finally emanate from 
its seclusion, the most beautiful, smooth, white, enameled, and sweet 
scented note paper that ever drove a love sick girl crazy to get it, 
and write great burnings words of frenzied love to some idol in the 
shape of a handsome young man. But here again the subject branches 
out; here again we find ourselves vainly trying to get at the facts in 
the girl's history, and to wonder how she became acquainted with the 
young man, and how she came to love him, and if he reciprocates 
her affection, and whether he is worthy or not, and what will be their 
lot in life. 



228 OUR HOUR ALONE 



But we break off this train of thought, for the curious fancy 
comes to us, what if we are now writing on the paper made from this 
identical rag? But no, we will dismiss the idea; it is better to let it 
remain as above, let the maid trace more delicate lines on its white 
surface than we can take time to do for the dear, patient compositors 
who will put this Hour Alone in a shape where we hope it will interest 
those of our readers who desire to get some information out of even 
the most trivial occurrences of everyday life. 

But we must close these pages and get out of this semi-dream- 
land, where we feel as though we were isolated from all the world 
of man, and were existing in a fairy realm, where everything was left 
to take some fanciful form, elucidated, perhaps, in that mysterious 
state where thought refuses to follow our dictation. 

And now we think there is a lesson in this narrative. The text is 
certainly a homely one. A dirty rag picked out of the filthy gutter, by 
a slovenly old woman. But what a train of thought it has called up. 
The lives of those people; the joys and sorrows, the griefs and fears, 
the hopes and cares, the loves and hates, the ease and sufferings, yea, 
all those vicissitudes and changes that fall to the lot of man, are 
present to us, and all growing out of a simple incident that many 
would never notice, or at least never heed. 

And we further hope that the boys and girls who read the beau- 
tiful new "Banner" will form a habit of thinking and also of getting 
some store of knowledge from the every day occurrences of life. 

Another thought ; the rag represents man. At first pure, hand- 
some, good ; but as time passes he gets soiled, stained, worn out. He 
reaches the gutter of the grave, and oh! let us hope that the angels 
come and pick him out, and that after renovation he is again as 
pure and white as this sheet on which we reluctantly trace the words, 
good night. 

Our Dreams 

The gilded dreams of early years color our lives with the roseate 
hues of hope, love, joy, bliss. We have been sailing near the shore, 
in the smooth, placid waters, while the hand of experience has held 
the shore end of a rope that prevented us from drifting out on the 
great ocean, and being buffeted by its waves. We have been stand- 
ing secure in the entrance of the cave, while the storm has raged over 
the plain, through the valleys, and rocked the tall pines on the sum- 
mit of the great mountains. We have been sitting under the shadows 
of a great rock, out of whose fissures flow the cooling waters, while 
the scorching rays of a tropical sun has glared down on the arid plains, 
covered with glittering sands, and swept by poisonous winds whose 



OUR HOUR ALONE 229 

breath is fatal to life. We have been standing on the mountain top, 
gazing out on the horizon bathed in the splendors of a glorious sun- 
set, while far below us, hundreds of feet down, storms are 
raging, thunders rolling crash after crash and lightning dart- 
ing in zigzag lines athwart the seething mass of angry 
clouds. Ah ! these are the happy, blissful dreams of early life. 
We awake from them, but they leave a pleasing recollection to which 
we love to turn, when with feeble frame and tottering step we hobble 
toward an open grave that must soon close over us. But the time 
comes when we leave the shore, and with only a chart and compass, 
steer for the other shore ; the storms arise, the billows roll, the break- 
ers roar; from the timid youth we become the hardy, tough, skillful, 
energetic sailor. We step out from the security of the cave, and 
while yet in the center of the plain the storm bursts in its fury, and 
we learn to stand firm and resolute amid its wildest terrors. We have 
left the shadow of the friendly rock, with its cooling water, and we are 
plodding over the burning sands of the desert, bearing the great bur- 
den of our lives, hot, thirsty, weary, and almost ready to faint by the 
wayside. We have descended from the sun-bathed pinnacle of the 
beautiful, pleasant mountain, and we are struggling with the tempest, 
our ears maddened by the terrific crash of thunder, and our eyes 
blinded by the vivid flashes. Happy are we indeed if we look up and 
say we thank God for the privations, the trials, the crosses, the bur- 
dens the toils, the troubles, the afflictions of life. As the storms that 
rock the branches of the oak, but settle and fix its roots deeper and 
stronger in the earth, so do these rougher experiences of life make 
us stronger, better, purer. Then let us stand in our allotted station 
in life, bravely, not timidly; let us meet every duty with a willing 
heart; let us accept wealth or poverty in the same spirit of heroism. 
For the way is short and the end draweth nigh, and we shall soon 
turn aside and take our places with the silent multitude who have 
gone a little before us. The earth will revolve, the seasons come and 
go, the flowers bloom and fade, the grass grow up and wither, men 
be born and die, nations rise and fall, governments be established and 
destroyed ages after we have dreamed our dream, met our difficulties, 
and slept in our graves. 

Hope 

Childhood and youth are radiant with hope. That it "springs 
eternal in the human heart" is a proposition so undebatable that we 
thank God it can not be contradicted. But hope is the peculiar 
heritage of the young. It lures them on from the earliest dawn of 
intelligence, ever presenting to them the rainbow at whose foot the 
fabled pot of gold lies buried. The child, made irksome by the neces- 



280 OUR HOUR ALONE 



sary restraints of home, longs for the freedom of the street, and the 
supposed immunities that school life will bring. The school boy- 
tired of the hum-drum of the primary room, hopes for, and seeks pro- 
motion to a higher grade. The youth grows tired of study and the 
application that study makes imperative, and hope points him to a 
better state, an easier life, a more independent condition, when he is 
privileged to mingle with the larger throng who crowd the thor- 
oughfares of active life. The minor has a feverish, an intense desire 
to slip the shackles — for the nearer he reaches the hoped for freedom, 
the more like veritable shackles these impediments to unrestrained 
action seem — to him — from him, and become one of those integers that 
— properly placed — become such important factors in that busy world 
where fortunes are made and lost, where honor comes and goes, where 
fame beckons on to daring deeds, where the voice of the multitude 
shouts the accents of praise ; and the hoot of the rabble hisses in bitterest 
scorn, where battles are won and lost, where difficulties are to be met 
and mastered, where the great struggle of the giants is in progress, 
and where hope tells him he is to be more fortunate than any who 
have contested in this mighty arena before him. Ah, radiant hope ! 
how bright it is, and not less bright because it so often deceives. 
How it lights up the dark valleys ; how it gilds the mist crested moun- 
tain tops ; how it drives away melancholy ; how it burnishes the prison 
bars of despair; how its sun paints the bow of promise as the storm 
subsides ; how brilliant the silver lining it places as a fringe on the 
edge of the darkest and most portentous clouds. The hope of humanity 
lifts the world above despair; but the hope that becomes a reality to 
the young does infinitely more than this; it not only lifts up above 
doubts and fears, but it blots from the lexicon of youth such words 
as failure, despair. Hope is never lost to humanity — thank God for 
that — but hope does undergo a wonderful, a marvelous change as 
years advance and powers decay. Youth sees hope as the lovely 
maiden, radiant in beauty and decked in splendor, adorned with the 
bridal veil, and true as the magnetic needle. Age looks on hope as 
the decrepit old woman, deformed by wrinkles and replete in rags, 
whose promises have turned to ashes on the lips that uttered them, 
and whose judgment is more unreliable than the simple utterances of 
a novice. 

But do we rail at hope? Without her life were a dreary waste, 
and earth a hell without a heaven in view. Blot out the natural sun, 
and in the coming years note what a ruin nature is. Blot out this 
sun of hope from lives of men, and see a vaster ruin still. Rail at 
hope? No, no; it lit the lamp of childhood's first desire; it built our 
castles in the days of youth; it pointed to the mountain's crested 
top in manhood's days, and we beheld the word "fame," in letters 



OUR HOUR ALONE 281 

large and bold, and then she bade us climb the rugged steeps, and 
pluck those letters hence and place them as a wreath about our brows ; 
and when age has tamed the fiercer torrents of our life, and wisdom 
sits to judge what hope reveals, and we are sure that not a score of 
years will pass till we are done with earth, this wizard, hope, still 
flashes the magic glass before our failing eyes, and in that glass we 
see another world where hope is lost and full fruition found. 

Looking Backward 

There are but two events that will vividly recall the earlier scenes 
of life, and cause us to dwell, in fancy, amid the hopes and joys of 
days long since past, but that cannot be obliterated from the pages of 
memory's cherished book. The one is meeting with some one who, 
in that dearest and sweetest period of existence, when friendships are 
the most sincere and the most valued, partook of our confidence. 
The other is when we are spending our Hour Alone, and the solemn 
stillness of our isolation has, as it were, driven our feelings in upon 
themselves, and turned back the thoughts from reaching after what is 
hidden in the dim and uncertain future, to send them rushing through 
the but little less dim and uncertain past. 

So it was that in this particular hour, we found our thoughts im- 
pelled irresistibly back over the history of more than forty revolving 
years, and found that history recording the successful termination 
of a few, a very, very few cherished objects, and the destruction of 
many, very, very many of our fondest idols. 

It was our intention to guide these thoughts into none but pleas- 
ant channels, and to let them linger only on the spot rendered delight- 
ful by some event that would call up none but the fondest recollec- 
tions. But we were soon aware that the first law in thought is that it 
is controlled by no law, but ranges at will through every possible 
phase of past memory, or future anticipations. And we found our- 
selves enjoying a sad pleasure, yes, that is the exact phrase to express 
our full meaning, a sad pleasure in calling up the great number of 
familiar names and faces that in past years we had been conversant 
with, and trying to recall their present locations, and various occupa- 
tions in life, or the time, manner and circumstances under which they 
were severally released from the obligations of life, and passed be- 
yond the reach of praise or censure, by entering through the narrow 
and universally dreaded portal of death, the unknown and mysterious 
realm known to us as eternity. 

It was surprising to us the number that we appeared to have lost 
track of entirely in the busy throng of life, and along its diverging 
ways, while we were compelled to close their brief page of memory's 



232 



OUR HOUR A LO N E 



history, with the short and unsatisfactory remark "they passed from 
our knowledge." 

Another large number of those whose movements in life we could 
trace to the present, appeared to have been bent on making the jour- 
ney of life for themselves and others as miserable as it was in their 
power to make it ; while not a few were to be found occupying posi- 
tions only to be obtained by those who have learned to meet every 
duty promptly, shirk no responsibility, and wait with patience for the 
fruition that always comes as the just reward of honest devotion to 
duty and right. 

Then, too, in this backward retrospect, appear the sad and silent 
cities of the dead, many of them builded on the most beautiful spots 
of earth, rendered attractive by every seeming advantage of natural 
scenery, and decorated with all the embellishments that art, urged to 
its highest efforts by the tenderest pleadings that a love nearly akin 
to idolatry, can give. As we enter one of these we see what? Ah, 
yes! in this almost level and nearly forgotten grave, rests the old man 
who used to totter by each morning on his staff, and who, to us chil- 
dren, seemed to be looking for some one he had lost. Perhaps he 
was; and who shall say that he has not found him? 

In this grave rests the boy who was thrown from the horse and 
killed, just over the brow of the hill yonder, but it is thirty-six years 
since those stricken friends stood with the weight of that bitter sor- 
row bowing them to the earth. 

Here is the carefully 'tended spot where sleeps the "radiant 
maiden," who was the pet and idol of the community. She is found 
in every community and she sleeps in every enclosure sacred as a 
place of sepulture. But a peculiar feeling comes over us as we draw 
near a particular spot in this silent bivouac of the dead. It is not a 
desire to weep that seizes us as we pause before the sculptured marble 
that marks the resting place of a dear sister who faded in the spring 
time as the stars melt into the brighter day. Beside her is a noble 
brother, who perished in the bloom of his early manhood : 

"Just at that brightest hour of youth. 
When life, spread out before him lay." 

And nestling close to these is the baby brother whose brief span 
of life closed years and years ago. 

But a different feeling comes over us now, a moisture dims our 
eyes, a tremor shakes our frame as we read those words so dear and 
yet so sad, "Our Father." Is it weakness to weep? Then call us 
weak, but deny us not the poor privilege of bathing this sacred mound 
with scalding drops. No matter what he was to others, he was our 



OUR HOUR ALONE 233 

father, toiling for our subsistence, planning for our comfort, anxious 
for our safety. He guided our wayward feet into the paths of recti- 
tude and virtue, shielded us from the temptations of evil, taught us 
an abiding faith in revealed religion, to love our country and our 
God, and then his form, bent with the cares of more than seventy 
summers, composed itself for the tomb, and in this, to us, expressive 
phrase, "Our Father," we give vent to feelings that may be experi- 
enced, but never described by mortal pen. 

A little beyond these are a few tiny mounds, containing our treas- 
ures. We will not detain you here. It were a useless task to attempt 
to impress you with our sorrow. If you have any of these sacred 
little mounds to weep over, you need not the aid of our feeble pen. 
If you have none of the broken idols, it would be vain to tell you of 
our past idolatry. Tears come thick as rain drops, and bitter sorrow 
chokes our utterance. But, dear readers, of the "Banner," while you 
have the jottings of another Hour Alone, we can say to you, if they 
recall not your own experience then are they not for you. But if 
your heart goes out in an earnest desire to be prepared for the hour 
of dissolution by reading these lines, then is our object accomplished. 



The Fentlands 

Although our thoughts are amenable to no well defined laws, yet 
circumstances, such as at particular times surround us, serve to guide 
those thoughts into this or that channel. When we got the coveted 
opportunity to spend our hour alone this week, the delightful weather 
of the past notably beautiful fall had been replaced by the biting 
blasts of those bleak and gloomy November winds, that are so apt to 
give us melancholy forebodings, and we soon found that we were 
revolving in our mind the vast amount of suffering that such a winter 
as this early cold indicates, must, necessarily, entail upon those whom 
poverty has deprived of the means of shielding themselves from its 
terrible pinchings. 

Was it wrong for us to wish that we were a millionaire, when our 
thoughts gathered in the thousands upon thousands, who, in different 
degrees, were suffering for food and shelter, and perhaps not less for 
kind words and loving sympathy? 

Particularly were we struck with the situation of a family whose 
history recurred to us more vividly, perhaps, because we had been more 
intimately conversant with them. 

They lived in the somewhat metropolitan city of P , and when 

we first knew John Fentland he was a bright, rather intelligent youth 
of twenty-two years, and was working for a thrifty farmer, west ol 



234 OUR HOUR ALONE 



the city. He was one of those good-natured, accommodating fellows 
who would rather see others happy than to enjoy selfish pleasure. 
His scanty earnings had been saved until he had one hundred and 
fifty dollars in the hands of another old farmer, to his credit; and 
being willing, strong and healthy, he hesitatel not to propose to Mary 

Telfin, the tidy daughter of a day laborer who lived on E street. 

They were quietly married and John continued to work during the 
first summer. But when their first child was born, the life of Mrs. 
Fentland hung for weeks in the balance. This caused a heavy expense 
to John ; besides being obliged to remain at home lost him his situation. 
He borrowed from friends expecting that he would soon be able to 
pay. But when his wife was sufficiently recovered to set him at liberty 
he found that times were getting dull, and it was not possible for him, 
with the hardest toil and the strictest economy, to more than subsist. 
Ten years elapsed before he was free from debt, and he found him- 
self broken in health and spirits, with a family of five children to pro- 
vide for. But John loved his family, and as he was addicted to no 
evil habits he struggled on for a few years longer, when, in order to 
better his condition, he engaged to dig coal in a mine. He had scarcely 
been engaged six months when one of those accidents so common to 
miners occurred ; the roof of the mine gave way and buried him under 
several tons of slate. He was taken out, dead. It were useless to 
attempt to describe the feelings of Mrs. Fentland as she looked from 
the silent face of her dead husband into the faces of those weeping 
children. 

The miners came to console her, for John had made friends among 
them, and they are proverbially sympathetic. But when he was buried 
a sickening sense of her lonely, dependent condition completely un- 
nerved her, and only the task of providing for those dearer to her than 
life, prevented despair from taking complete possession. 

For three years that anxious mother has battled with poverty, — 
yes, battled,— for her's has indeed been a fight for bare existence. 

How has her heart sunk as the heartless butcher charged seven 
cents per pound for the bone so scantily covered with meat, and she 
thought of the hungry mouths awaiting at home. 

How bitter were her thoughts as she drew a scanty robe around 
her, and stepped from the grocery store into the cheerless street, hug- 
ging the supplies that were far too inadequate. 

How did hope well nigh die out as she left the counter of the 
opulent merchant with eyes moistened with the bitterest tears that 
earth's sorrows can cause to flow, tears shed because her children could 
not be protected from the keen, cutting, merciless blasts of stern, 
relentless winter. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 235 

True she heard the remark that the butcher was flourishing in 
business. She knew that the groceryman was building a splendid 
residence. She was aware that the merchant could command every 
comfort for his family. But that did not relieve her necessities. 

Some months ago her youngest child, yielding to disease brought 
on by lack of proper clothing and sufficient food, died ; and as she laid 
it away in that part of the graveyard known as "Potter's Field," it 
was hard, Oh ! so hard for her to be comforted, when she knew that 
her babe had actually been murdered. 

No ; it can not be wrong to wish we had the means to relieve 
human suffering, after we have spent an hour alone, thinking over the 
fate of John Fentland's family, and realize that his widow and her 
four spared children are even now appealing to the cold charities of a 
selfish world. 

Dear readers of the Banner, you have the etchings of another hour 
alone. We cannot tell why our thoughts took this turn ; but if the 
perusal of them causes a kindlier glow of human sympathy to kindle 
in your bosom, and determines you to seek out the Mrs. Fentlands in 
your neighborhood, then will we rest satisfied that our object has been 
accomplished. 

Reverence Your Father 

If there be one fault in the boy that we can never feel like con- 
doning, it is the neglect to render that respect to his father that the 
relation existing between them so imperatively demands. 

On this quiet evening as we retire to spend our allotted time alone, 
somehow our thoughts turned to the many instances that have come 
under our own observation, in which boys forgot or ignored the duty 
of rendering a due amount of respect to their father. We have always 
felt that nothing outside of heaven could approach to the holy devotion 
of a mother's tireless love. But certainly next akin to this comes the 
less demonstrative, but scarcely less ardent affection of a fond father. 
When we remember that a large majority of fathers are placed in cir- 
cumstances where a ceaseless struggle is necessary to keep "The wolf 
from the door," and that the brunt of that struggle falls to the lot of 
the father. When we know that a thousand daily trials come up to 
vex and harass him ; when we realize how often the burden seems 
heavier than he can bear, and that sleepless nights, the horrors of 
which can only be known by those who have experience in that direc- 
tion, have been passed in futile endeavors to conjure up some way to 
meet pressing obligations, without letting the loved ones know the 
desperate strait that would undoubtedly dampen their accustomed 
joys; when we feel that those wrinkles are less the result of age than 



236 



OUR HOUR ALONE 



care ; that those silvering locks are not whitened so much by the frosts 
of age, as by the daily little troubles that come upon him, viz. : the 
care of all the family, then we can not help thinking how barren of 
affection, how bare of the flowers of love, how dead to every noble 
sentiment, how devoid of every principle of honor, how destitute of 
generous impulses, how lost to every finer sentiment of humanity must 
a boy be, who can for a single moment, forget to render the truest 
devotion to that father. 

Ah! Alas!! The boy who can deliberately make sport of his 
father, no difference what the failings of that father may be, occupies 
a fearful position, and is a foul blot on the society in which he lives. 

He is to be avoided as one would avoid the destroying pestilence. 

The boy stands out in the community, ugly as the foul weed that 
neglect has suffered to mar the beauty of the flower garden. He is 
the blasted apple tree that destroys the fair proportions of the well 
set orchard ; the gnarled oak that appears so unsightly in the symmetri- 
cal grove ; his page of life is already covered with unsightly blots, that 
a whole life of repentance may scarcely wipe out. In fact he is the 
deadly poisonous and hideous serpent that not only shocks the com- 
munity, but is dangerous to its peace. 

Our heart bleeds tonight, as our memory goes back to a large num- 
ber who, we know, carry in their bosoms, hidden from the gaze of 
every human being, recollection of such treatment of a father, as for 
worlds they would not now make public. 

To the large number of boys who, we hope, read the Banner, we 
dedicate the result of Our Hour Alone, hoping that it may lead them 
to have a greater degree of love and respect for that father who has 
spent his strength, and the best years of his life, for your especial 
benefit. And that those random thoughts may prevent you from laying 
up for yourselves a store of bitter sorrow for future years, by being 
negligent of those final duties that none can neglect with impunity. 

The Falling Snow 

The snow is quietly sifting down over the Silent City, as we drop 
into our accustomed place and find we are as near alone as it is pos- 
sible to get. This drifting mantle of white is silently falling around 
millions of homes, some of them the homes of opulence and wealth, 
rich in all that money can buy, and tasteful in all educated minds can 
invent ; some the homes of that great class upon whose valor, education 
and virtue, the structure of government rests ; those homes where more 
of independence rests and more of contentment dwells, than anywhere 
else in all the world. Some the homes of those who are engaged in a 



OUR HOUR ALONE 237 

great and powerful struggle to obtain the very necessaries of life, and 
in whose shadows deeds of heroism are daily, yea, hourly performed, 
more noble, more grand, more sublime than any ever performed on 
blood-stained deck, or field, where in the great shock of battle, con- 
tending armies meet and maim and cripple men for glory. Some are 
the homes of those who have been conquered in the fierce contest, who 
have succumbed to a fate they have no longer power to resist, and are 
now sullenly waiting for what is no longer even dreaded by them — 
death. 

Some are happy homes, where peace reigns, where contentment 
dwells, and where hope beats strong in every bosom, diffusing a glow 
and warmth over all its surroundings. 

Here it drifts over the home, where all that might make life 
desirable is present, but where, owing to the utter lack of love — the 
golden chain of life — nothing but misery dwells. 

There it spreads a mantle about the home where love, and love 
only, is the controlling influence, and sheds a radiance over every- 
thing, that partakes much of the beauty and character of Him who is 
said to be love. 

Here the soft flakes are resting on the home of him who has never 
learned to quaff the devil-brewed cup of wine ; that hell-decocted fluid 
in whose cursed and unpitying flood, not only the bodies but the souls 
of millions have been drowned in the darkest perdition, whose wife 
still sits a queen upon the pedestal of his affections, and whose children 
are growing up about him like fair plants. 

There it is finding its way through open roof and broken siding, 
and paneless windows, into the place that ought to be the home of 
him who loves strong drink. Oh ! that but one life had been blasted in 
that miserable dwelling. Oh ! that the wife — once fair and lovely as 
the flowers, and radiant as the stars, and trusting as the infant in her 
arms — did not share its utter wretchedness and woe ! That these little 
children had never been permitted to enter this abode where the devil 
rum, riots in all that is degrading and vile, while all their surroundings 
are dark as midnight darkness, and where those blessed flakes, em- 
blems of heavenly purity, seem to linger, lest dropping they might 
be defiled. 

Here it finds a home where father, mother, brothers and sisters, 
are bound in the closest unity, and where sullen faces and cross words 
are seldom or never seen. 

There again, it seeks out those Avho are so opposite in all that con- 
stitutes the true bond of affection, that father and mother can never 
agree, and brothers and sisters have never learned how sweet it is to 
dwell together in unity. 



238 



OVR HOUR ALONE 



Here the feathery down covers the home whose occupants are sor- 
rowing over the wayward boy whose feet are even now fast entered 
upon the way that leads down to swift and sure destruction. 

There the same down is on the dwelling where a noble son, now 
become the main support of the family, is standing in the line of 
manly duty, firm as the sheet anchor that is sure and steadfast. 

Here it seems to have an audible sound of sadness as it drops on 
the roof that shelters the form, and covers the shame of a daughter 
who, scorning paternal control, and spurning the holy efforts of a 
mother, who has agonized for her, has, moth like, been dazzled by the 
brilliant light of pleasure, until she has been scorched and ruined in 
the fierce flames of the libertine. 

There again it assumes a sound of joy and gladness as it visits the 
home where a prudent daughter, wise in obeying her mother, and con- 
scious that while all her plans are open for the approval or condemna- 
tion of that tireless interest for her welfare that glows only in the 
breast of a mother, that she is in the path of duty, and is shedding a 
light over all the household that will be sadly missed when she leaves 
it. 

Falling is it on homes of gladness, where hopes brighten, on homes 
of sadness where despair enters ; on homes of health where no concern 
is felt, and on homes where the soft tread and low-turned lamps, 
speaks of the invalid and anxious concern for the sick. 

On homes where new born babes grapple hearts with new chains 
of love, and on homes where the expiring grandfather lays his trem- 
bling hand on the head of youth and gives his parting blessing. 

Yes, and on the homes of the dead it is falling, white as the 
shrouds that envelop their still forms; covering from view their rest- 
ing places. Here is the grave of age, youth, manhood; yes, and the 
little child. Ah ! How many hearts ache tonight, as they think of those 
dear little forms, those forms once so full of life and hope, now being 
rapidly covered with God's pure carpet of snow. 

But Our Hour is closing, while yet a thousand thoughts seem to 
ask that we jot them down so that readers of the Banner may profit 
by them, but we cannot. But we have felt as if we had from some 
high peak, looked down into many homes, and contrasted them and 
profited by the contrast. If those who read the Banner are induced 
to think seriously of how they can add to the happiness of their own 
homes, we are satisfied and will say again, good night. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 289 

Respect for Age 

This is a cheerless night. Cold north winds are sweeping over the 
level plains, through the gorges of the mountains, over the crests of 
the hills, and are moaning among the leafless branches of the cheer- 
less forests, with a solemn sound that is suggestive of the deepest sad- 
ness. And though the merry chime of the Christmas bells is almost 
ready to waken us from any melancholy reverie, yet there is a some- 
thing akin to real sadness in the sighing of the bleak December winds, 
that will give a sombre cast to all our thoughts. 

So much are we the creatures of circumstances, that while engaged 
in the whirl of actual business, or even when in social intercourse with 
friends, our thoughts travel around in a sort of circumscribed circle, 
essaying to fly but crippled in their flight. But when, — as is now the 
case, — we revel in the coveted Hour Alone, our thoughts expand, and 
wandering fancy free, reach out to the sterile hills of rock girt New 
England, and wandering on and on, reach at length the semi-tropical 
coasts of the Gulf States, or crossing the wonderful valley of the Mis- 
sissippi, traversing the American Desert, toiling over the barriers of 
the Rocky Ridge, and standing at length with the smooth and placid 
waters of the Pacific Ocean at our feet, we find everywhere the evi- 
dences of decay, and the whole natural scenery, covered as it is with 
a spotless mantle of white, is so suggestive of old age, that we find our 
thoughts irresistibly drifting toward those whose whitening locks and 
silvering beard tell all too plainly that the winter of life has settled 
over them. 

We see the old man leaning on his staff to support his feeble body 
and assist his tottering limbs. His hopes lie buried in a hundred 
graves; his ambition no longer urges him to attempt the hazardous 
chances that fortune holds out as the alluring bait to stimulate to the 
accomplishment of deeds of heroism or virtue. His eye is dim ; his 
ear heavy ; his intellect sluggish ; his step unsteady, and his energy 
dead. We watch him as he hesitates and passes around an object in 
his path that in the days gone by his nimble foot would have spurned 
from his pathway. 

The extended horizon that his keen vision once scanned is a very 
limited space. The ear that once caught the slightest vibration of the 
air, now scarce responds to the most violent concussion of the atmos- 
phere. As the dead oak that once reached out its giant branches to 
interlace its fellows, and bid defiance to the fiercest storm, but now 
with sapless trunk, and leafless branch and loosened in the earth, is 
moved and swayed by the gentlest breeze, so he once hearty, strong 
and proud, now bows his head to earth and shivers in the balmy winds 
of summer. 



240 OUR HOUR ALONE 



But thought goes back to the antipode of age, and we see a prat- 
tling babe crowing in the arms of a loving mother ; we see a toddling 
infant whose unsteady feet are just learning to support the body ; we 
discern a romping boy intent on chasing the flitting moth ; we behold 
the thoughtful youth threading the devious ways of learning ; we find 
the young man of business struggling in the surging billows of trade. 

"We discover the man of family weighted with a thousand cares; 
and then again blessed with a competency, girdled by his family and 
surrounded by his friends, in the full flush of a matured and vigorous 
manhood, it seems that winter could not come. 

But its snows are on his locks tonight. The wife of his youth is 
resting in hope; his children are fighting the battle of life in distant 
lands ; his friends have long since grown weary and lain down to rest, 
while he is waiting to be mustered out of service, with an honorable 
discharge. 

An instinctive homage rises in our heart toward that old man, as 
we think of him as a soldier in life, bearing the scars of many sorrows. 
His burdens in life we may never know, but God knows them every 
one, and we know that over the silent river a band is waiting to wel- 
come him home. That band is composed of father, mother, brother, 
sister, wife, children and friends. 

But a rattle of the blind recalls us to a consciousness of the present, 
and as we cast our eye over the white and silent world we realize 
that another cherished hour has gone in the darkness of that which 
is past, and we sit here wondering why our thoughts took this peculiar 
turn. May it have been in order to awaken in the hearts of the young 
people who read the Banner a genuine respect for age in whatever cir- 
cumstances it may be met? If so, we are content, and we ask our 
young readers to reflect that while age with plenty and friends is 
entitled to respect, that there are many who have not been victors in 
life's battle, who are without means and friends, and whose bitter 
experience is a living testimony to the fact that, 

"Age and want, oh ill-matched pair 
Make countless thousands mourn." 

Hoping that the dear readers of the Banner may have a genuine 
respect for those whose age and experience entitle them to such from 
those who yet are young and comparatively inexperienced, we give 
you a pleasant good night. 

Young Men 

Tonight as the silence of solitude falls around us, our thoughts 
appear to be instinctively turned to the young men whom it has been 



OUR HOUR ALONE 241 

our lot to come in contact with during our journey thus far along the 
rugged ways of life. 

There is perhaps no time in the life of an individual so critical, so 
important, so full of promise, either for good or evil, as the time from 
sixteen to twenty in the life of a boy — we say boy for few of them 
can be called anything else at that age. 

It has been said by some one that "at the age of eighteen charac- 
ters are mostly formed." And that "whatever a young man is at that 
age he will be, with slight modifications, perhaps, until the close of 
life." 

At the first glance we were disposed to take some exception to 
these sentiments ; but upon more deliberate examination we believe 
them to be, in the main, correct. 

Of course there are exceptions to all general rules, but these only 
go to make the declaration so much the more emphatic. 

Our former position in life, that of a teacher, brought us in direct 
contact with a great many young men, and gave us a pretty accurate 
insight into a great variety of different dispositions, and as silence 
broods over the sleeping world, and we sit in silent thought, the mind 
calls up many familiar forms and faces to our views. 

A great number of them, by far the greater, have passed out of 
our human knowledge. They have become identified with the great 
moving, jostling, rushing mass of humanity, and have been swallowed 
up in that unfathomed ocean of business where so many of our young 
men are, alas ! lost to view forever. 

We have taken a sort of sad pleasure — for we know there is a 
sad pleasure, and we thank God that He has given it among the things 
bestowed on our poor restless human hearts, — in tracing the history 
of some of them backward from where we lost sight of them, to the 
time, when they lay an undeveloped embryo in the arms of a tender, 
loving, faithful mother. It is her watchful eye that sees the first smile 
play over that face; it is her tireless hands that administer to every 
want ; it is her loving heart that anticipates every wish or desire ; that 
rejoices at the first sign that indicates the awakening of that intellect 
that is destined to place her boy among those who come to honor, or 
consign him to a place among those whose deeds of sin and shame 
have taught society to execrate his very name. 

Tears have fallen on your face, young man who may pick up this 
copy of the Banner and read "Our Hour Alone," for no mother ever 
yet looked into the sparkling eyes of her infant son without shedding 
tears at the possibilities that were lying before him in the future. 



242 OUR HOUR ALONE 



Prayers have gone up for you, young man, for no mother ever 
ceased to pray for her own son. It cannot be possible that she could 
do so. 

The towering oak may attain to symmetrical proportions and 
gigantic strength, swaying its branches in the gentle breezes, or defy- 
ing the mad elements when lashed to fury by the storm ; its age may 
be recorded by thousands of annual rings, but it will perish and decay 
as though it had not been. 

The towering mountain, by the action of water and other elements, 
will be blended with the plain. 

The glaciers will melt away from the continents that are lying 
cold and barren beneath their crystal appearing clearness. 

The oceans will evaporate and go back into that atmosphere from 
whence they were at first distilled. 

The sun will forget to shine, his mighty furnaces being exhausted ; 
the moon will no longer reflect her borrowed light ; the planet will 
cease to revel in paths of living light ; the stars will dim and fade and 
go out forever from the azure blue of the sky; the comets will no 
longer wheel their erratic courses through limitless space ; the Heavens 
will be "rolled together like a scroll," and the earth will melt with 
fervent heat; all else may perish, but that mother's love, laying hold 
of the arm of God in prayer for her son will be tireless even then ; for 
it cannot be that in the eternal world that mother love is less ardent 
than it is here on earth. 

Some of those boys we have been able to keep track of yet. A 
portion of them heeding the counsels of the wise and prudent have 
arisen to places of distinction and honor and profit; others made sad 
shipwrecks of their lives, being lured by the wine cup and the fascinat- 
ing glitter of the gambler's hell, and have despised wisdom and learn- 
ing until their feet have entered the road that leads to death. Some 
of them have gone down to untimely graves, and have left a hideous 
blank to mark the promise of their early years. 

Ah ! We cannot but think that when their tired feet were standing 
on the margin of the cold river of death, and the clammy dampness 
of the last great struggle rested on their brow, and the rustle of 
angel's wings came near, and the cold touch of the icy fingers of death 
was feeling along the lines of life, about to loosen their silver cord and 
break the golden bowl of life, then a vision of the beautiful home on 
the hillside, with its smooth lawns and spreading trees; its waving 
fields and murmuring brooks; it growing plants and singing birds; 
its ripening fruits and bursting flowers, — that home made sacred by 
the thousand endearments of a father's care, a mother's devotion, a 



OUR HOUR ALONE 243 

sister's love, must have come to them, and how the remembrance must 
have added "Another bitter pang to those already there." 

Twenty years ago these young men were standing just where the 
readers of the Banner are standing tonight. 

Is there a lesson for you in these few feeble, erratic and wander- 
ing thoughts that the expiration of "Our Hour Alone" warns us we 
may no longer indulge for the present? If so, and our humble effort 
induces one of you to enter the narrow, often rugged, and always dif- 
ficult road that leads at last to an old age of respect and honor, then 
as we bid you good night we will feel this one hour at least has not 
been mis-spent. 

Silence of Night 

The silence of night has settled over this little city, this hamlet 
of a few hundred people. There is a weirdness about this stillness 
that those who retire early, miss. The day has many jarring notes, 
notes that are inseparable from the waking activities of life. They 
are the accumulations of all those minor noises that are concomitant 
to business, to the profession, the manufactories, the movements of 
trade, the commercial transaction, — in fact to all that go to make up 
the activities of busy man. 

In the rush of the day's doings there is nothing done in silence. 
The bird warbles its matin song when but the farther reaching 
streamers of the sun climb up the eastern slopes of heaven's cerulean 
blue. The waking infant, whose wiggling toes and moving fingers 
indicate that intelligence begins to dawn, is cooing in its cradle bed. 
The rooster with his voice shrill or sonorous has marked the quarter 
hours of waning night, taught by unerring instinct that light will scat- 
ter gloom. The daylight insect world awakes to stir the still, damp 
air with vibrant wing, to chirp, to whir, to drone, to make their 
music droll in curious, devious ways. The cattle ruminate and, drowsy 
still, get their rear limbs in place and resting for a moment on bended 
forward knees then rise and stretch, and low for easing hand of milk- 
man skilled. The horse, impatient to be fed, lifts up his head, braces 
his forward legs, drags his hind ones beneath, shakes his loose hide 
to rattle off the straw, noses the coarser stalks of hay that litter the 
manger bottom, and whinnies for a fresh supply. The whistles blow 
with keen and piercing screech ; the ringing anvil starts its deafening 
din; the school bell rocking in its tower above twangs out its call, 
warning the student the daily task is near; the care-free children 
crowd the streets with laughter, shout and song; the rattling wagons 
join the incongruous sounds; the automobile buzzes swiftly past; the 
flying train, with precious human load, is here and gone ; the grinding 
wheels of slower moving freights wind round the sinuous curves, and 



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OUR HOUR ALONE 



all of these, with myriads more that time would cloy to note make up 
the constant din that all day assaults the ear. 

But night has come, and with it night's repose. The sun has gone 
beneath the western hills; the gathering shadows fall, and darkness 
comes ; the silent bird, with folded wing, is perched ; the infant sleeps 
in peace; the chanticleer is still; the daylight insects all are mute; 
the cattle lie at ease; the tired horse now stretched in narrow stall; 
• the whistle gives no sound; the bell gives out no peal; the childish 
shout has changed to pleasant dreams; the wagon noise is gone; the 
automobile chug has ceased; the flying train is at the terminus; the 
freight wheels on the siding stand, and all the other sounds of day 
are dead. The moon has hid her borrowed light; the stars — those 
silent stars — twinkle above and show where other silent worlds revolve 
in space. The lights in houses near and far have long been out, or 
dimmed — except where some lone watcher sits beside the bed where 
toss the restless sick, or in the room where friends in whispers speak, 
and quiet, watch for death ; the mother heart, so full of love, begins 
to slow and stops forever; the strong man wasted by the cruel fever 
loses his vital breath ; or age, with gladness, lays his weary burden 
down — except for these the world is dark, and silent as though the din 
of day had never been. 

In such an hour, when slumber wraps a silent world, how small, 
how very insignificant, one lonely man appears? What strange, weird 
feelings creep upon him ? How foolish seem the strifes and bickerings 
of the day? How troop before us in this silent hour the duties we 
neglected in the light; the rank injustice we have done a friend; the 
evil that we failed to shun; the good we did not grasp, when but the 
hand outstretched would make it ours? 

If you have never gone out in the silent night, and looked up to 
where God reigns, in power, in mercy and in love, and abroad over 
this great world in which one seems so small, so helpless, then have 
you, dear readers of the Banner, never realized to what you are in- 
debted for this Hour Alone, and so we lay aside a weary pen, and join 
the sleeping ones who now in silence rest. 

North Dakota 

No grander scenery is found anywhere than that of the Rocky 
Mountains. Those who go west by the Northern Pacific railway see 
some of the finest views in the world. Leaving St. Paul and Minne- 
apolis—well called the Twin Cities— the traveler catches glimpses of 
the lake regions of Minnesota, is whirled across the Red River of the 
North, and begins to cross the interminable treeless plains that consti- 
tute the prairies of North Dakota. It is doubtful if there is a more 



OUR HOUR A LP N E 245 

magnificent stretch of prairie land in the world than that which con- 
stitutes the Red River Valley. As the writer saw this country in the 
late August and early September of 1892, it seemed as if it must have 
been meant for the garden spot of the world. There is a vastness 
about the long stretches of open grass lands that makes one feel as 
if there was no end to earth, and as if the idea was to have no limit 
to vision. There is a bigness about the farms west of Fargo that 
makes our Illinois farms seem mere garden patches. It was here, on 
the afternoon of August 19, 1892, that we saw fifteen harvesters fol- 
lowing each other around a field of wheat, on what is known as the 
Dalrymple farm. It gave us some idea of the way in which so many 
immense flouring mills are kept in operation in Minneapolis. There 
were miles and miles along the route that serene and beautiful August 
evening, extending miles and miles both north and south of the track, 
that were as thickly dotted with wheat shocks as rich soil and careful 
and intelligent cultivation could set them. 

One's impressions of a country are largely formed for or against, 
as one sees it under favorable or unfavorable circumstances. It was 
our fortune to pass through this part of North Dakota four times, but 
always at the same season of the year, and that the most pleasant. "We 
were told that a few months later, when the "northers" are sweeping 
these bare plains, that one's impressions would not be that this is the 
garden spot of the earth, by any manner of means, and we can well 
imagine that all that was told us is true. The beauty of the landscape 
is patent to the most dull and stupid observer. To one who has an 
eye for the beautiful in nature, it is a picture painted by a master's 
hand. But we were not hurrying to our destination, nor were we 
carried away by first impressions. This country has advantages if 
wheat raising was the only object in life. But it has one great draw- 
back — and in our estimation a very serious one — and that is that a 
diversity of crops is out of the question. Corn can not be successfully 
raised on the prairies of North Dakota, and we state a deliberate opin- 
ion that has grown stronger with the years, that the most prosperous, 
and the most wealthy farmers will be found where the greatest variety 
of crops may be cultivated with a reasonable prospect of a fair yield, 
and a ready market. 

It must be kept in mind that we are now speaking of what we be- 
lieve to be the very best portion of North Dakota. "We stood out on 
the platform a couple of hours, with the door of the vestibule open, 
and saw the glories of a sunset that could not be excelled — except it 
might be on the ocean — and we fancied that serene evening that it 
must be a very similar scene. 

A few hours' ride brings us to miles and miles of virgin soil that 
no furrow has yet been turned in. There are great stretches rising 



246 



OUR HOUR ALONE 



and sinking so gradually that as one watches them, the idea gets hold 
of them that here was once a great ocean, and that by some means it 
has changed from water to land, just as some gentle wind had calmed 
its billows into long, but gently swelling undulations. On the higher 
points begin to appear great boulders, sometimes isolated, sometimes 
in groups, but always present from here until the Missouri is reached 
at Mandan. 

Where the smaller streams are dried up there is a thick, white de- 
posit of alkali, that in the fierce sunshine of the long summer days 
cracks into mathematically symmetrical blocks or diamonds. The little 
lakes, or more properly ponds, are fringed or bordered with this same 
shiny deposit, and are alive with the wild duck at this season. 

About every so far a house can be seen, or what answers the pur- 
pose of a house. They are generally on some high knoll, near a stream, 
and so far from any other habitation that it makes one lonesome to 
look at them. It is possible — nay more than probable — that these high 
plateaus will be as thickly dotted with homes as are our own Illinois 
prairies ; but when we look at the difficulties, and realize that the rain- 
fall is not to be depended on, we may be pardoned for a slight skep- 
ticism. If this land could be irrigated — and it may yet be by means of 
artesian wells. 

We sat down to write an Hour Alone. By the calendar the moon 
should be now totally eclipsed, but the thick, black, murky clouds are 
driving before a gale that is bending and tossing the trees, and we 
peer in vain for a rift that would grant us a sight of luna's darkened 
face. Was this night meant for failure? When we sat down to write 
we saw a picture of an August day a year later, we standing on an 
elevation, and a beautiful valley hemmed in by lofty snow-capped 
mountains, before us, and our purpose was to put the picture on paper, 
but we have failed in this, and written an article that would be ac- 
cepted in the office of a modern farm journal. We promise our readers 
that in some future Hour Alone that picture may appear. 

Man is Gregarious 

How insignificant and how significant is life. When looked at in 
the abstract there are few lives that seem important. When looked at 
in the concrete there are few of them that do not seem to fill a place 
that no other one would appear capable of filling. Man is not, and 
never was intended to be a solitaire. He is a gregarious animal, and 
his adaptabilities are all in that direction. In this fact we discover 
the basic structure of the family, the neighborhood, the community, 
the state, the nation, the world. In this fact we also discern the idea 
that finds expression in that far-reaching and comprehensive word, 



OUR HOUR ALONE 247 

cosmopolitan. In this fact also lies the incentive to progress, to civil- 
ization, to enlightenment, to education, to culture, to invention, to 
development, to government, and from this fact flows all the benefits 
and the advantages that accrue to man from what is known as society. 
Take man and isolate him, and he becomes the most helpless thing that 
comes within the scope of observation. He has no incentive to action, 
lacks the spur of competition, has no emulation to lead him on, no 
virtues to culminate in religion, no love of country to end in patriotism. 
It is not possible for the hermit to develop ; the best that he can do is 
to slowly retrograde away from spirituality, and toward the instincts 
of the brute, and if he does not complete the transformation it is because 
death comes to end a career that has no hope but in obscurity. Place 
two men together and you have benefited both. Add another to the 
number, and your trinity is more to be desired than is the dual 
existence. Add another and another, and so on, ad infinitum, 
and you are dealing with a geometric ratio that will soon 
carry us beyond finite comprehension. From this problem springs 
the busy farm, the clustering hamlet, the brisk village, the 
bustling town, the pretentious city, the great metropolis. If 
we take the ascending scale we start at the insignificant single life 
and gradually but surely go upward until we reach the realm of the 
cosmopolitan. If we start at the significant life, the aggregate life, 
we take the descending scale and trace it, slowly it may be, but surely, 
to the one life. As we trace the upward scale we reach successively 
the highest development of man's physical, mental and moral nature. 
As we trace the downward scale, the moral nature is lost, the mental is 
scarcely noticeable, and the physical is dwarfed and distorted. But 
where is the profit in following out the steps in such a calculation? Is 
it any benefit that we note the integers and count the factors in such 
a calculation? Is there a logical conclusion that may be reached that 
will compensate for the pains and the labor we must put forth? If 
we study this question will it bring us face to face with the important 
question of individual responsibility? Will it enable us to reconcile 
the seeming inconsistency of the statement that the same life is insig- 
nificant and significant? Will it lead into that realm where we will 
be forced to take a proper view of what constitutes the individual 
rights of man? Will it point out to us the place where these rights 
must meet and yield to the more important rights of society? Will it 
show us that unrestrained liberty is the worst form of tyranny? Will 
it enable us to raise and answer the question whether governments 
make men, or men make governments ? If it does all these, or if it does 
any considerable part of these, the meditations of this hour will not 
be useless. If it shows us that it does matter what the individual life 
is, it will not be a useless task. Give us the true man, the honest man, 



248 



OUR HOUR ALONE 



the just man, the great man, we have the material from which to build 
the true community, the honest state, the just government, the great 
nation. No nation can be great whose individual citizens are not pure, 
good, just, true, righteous, and able to discern the rights of themselves 
and others. 

The Natural Law is Labor 

Let us first settle it that there is a great Creator who has planned 
the universe, not only this small world on which we live for a brief 
period of time, but all those universes the darkness reveals to us, and 
that the use of the telescope has made us more or less familiar with. 
It is true that some attribute everything to law ; some refer the regu- 
larity of circling orbs and moving planets to chance; some looking 
upon the earth in its beauty, the firmament in its splendor, the sea in 
its grandeur, the mountain in its strength, the landscape in its loveli- 
ness, make the plea of ignorance and say we do not know. 

The first of these forget that law never reasons nor plans, but 
works as some intelligence has planned. The second forget that chance 
has no fixed system, no formulated plan, but is deaf, blind and voice- 
less. The third forget that knowledge — more or less accurate — is pos- 
sible to every one possessed of reason. The very fact that law governs 
in every realm of nature, points backward to the superior wisdom that 
planned and set these laws in operation. The very fact that all the 
worlds move in allotted circles through space, never getting out of 
their orbits, never colliding with each other, is evidence that chance 
can never account for these regular movements through space. The 
fact that knowledge — yet in its infancy — has revealed so much, makes 
one pause, in subscribing to the theory that we do not know. 

It seems evident that there is a great intelligence that the Christian 
calls God. To us it seems certain that this God has so formed man, 
and so circumstances him, that labor is essential to his happiness. The 
world is not a great store room filled with everything that man needs ; 
it is rather a great work-shop, where tools and materials are found, 
where man may make for himself, those things that add to his enjoy- 
ment, his comfort and his happiness. 

Whatever may be said of nature as a provider, the fact remains 
that she gives but a scant store, and that in but embryo forms. 

The kernel of wheat was first a weed seed until labor developed 
it. The tomato was but a small fruit of uninviting flavor, until labor 
brought it to its present valuable state. The peach was but a poison 
production until labor made it a luscious fruit. The strawberry was 
but a tiny thing until labor made it a mammoth in comparison with 
the original. It is so in every department of nature. She may make 
provisions for a savage existence, but man's labor, man's skill, man's 



OUR HOUR ALONE 249 

inventive genius has made provision for an existence that is civilized, 
enlightened, refined. 

This is evidently God's plan and, like all others of His plans, it 
is made in infinite wisdom. There is no really well developed, happy 
man, who is an idle man. It is true that man has established an aris- 
tocracy of wealth that attempts to live in idleness, but the Fisks, the 
Gould, the Vanderbilts and the Thaws give evidence that the highest 
type of manhood and womanhood is not thus produced. 

A life of labor is not a curse, but a blessing, and favored indeed 
is the young man or young woman who is born to this life of labor, 
who realizes that God placed the first pair in the garden — not to loaf 
there, but to "dress it and keep it," and fully understands the fiat of 
God in regard to man, ''In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread," 
and he is best equipped for meeting the duties of life, who must toil in 
order to live, and has no time to loaf in some other man's business 
place or on the corners of the streets. 

A Sea Voyage 

Nothing in the world can so completely isolate us from connection 
with the great bustling crowd of humanity as a long sea voyage. It 
seems to cut us off so completely from all our former ties that we for- 
get, for the time, that we have any connection with the busy marts of 
trade, and we feel that our interests all center in the company that 
compose the number of our fellow prisoners — for we can never divest 
our mind of Dr. Johnson's idea that all on board of a ship are virtually 
prisoners — and we find ourselves deeply interested in even the most 
humble and obscure of our fellow passengers. A unity of purpose — 
that of reaching a common point of destination — tends to unify all in 
more directions than this. A sea voyage is, at best, monotonous ; there 
is the same seemingly interminable expanse of water ; the same repeat- 
ing of wave after wave rolling with undulating motion up toward the 
prow of the vessel ; the same lack of variety day after day, as the sun 
emerges from his bed of water, and sinks again to aqueous slumber. 

Thus isolated, the vessel becomes a miniature world ; it is subject 
to every phase of life's mysterious drama; hope, love, joy, despair, 
hate, misery, revenge, all are here ; friendships are formed and broken ; 
jealousy creeps in to sunder sacred ties ; ambition holds up her fatal 
mirror before the gaze of one, before alive to every touch of misery, 
and he at once becomes dead to every generous impulse, and deaf to 
every sound but self -laudation ; envy lurks in secret disguise, ready to 
point out every defect in human character ; love is born ; love also dies ; 
health is regained and lost; marriages are solemnized; death comes. 
Ah ! yes. The relentless tyrant, death, comes into this miniature world. 



250 



OUR HOUR ALONE 



and leaves his cold, icy, chilling touch on the infant, the youth, the 
middle-aged and the old. Death is not welcome anywhere. He is the 
dreaded specter, that with noiseless tread walks just behind on the 
life-path of every human being ; he stands at the cradle, appears beside 
the bride at the altar, and grins, a hideous monster, in company with 
the tottering steps of age. Gild as we may the shores of eternity with 
the blessed promise of a higher state of existence ; people it, as we do, 
with the glorified spirits of those who have perished from our side, 
cover it with the sweet flowers of hope ; gladden it with the assurance 
of freedom from pain, from sorrow, from disappointment, and bathe it 
in the bright effulgence of God's love, and care, and goodness, and yet 
we stand aghast at the bare idea that the pale king of terrors is placing 
his invisible spell on us or those we love. 

Death comes with a peculiar and undefinable terror to those on 
shipboard. A case recurs to us now. The ship was a large one, with 
a full complement of passengers. Among them was a young mother, 
whose life seemed bound up in a beautiful infant, a girl, of perhaps 
two years. It was known that her husband had preceded her to 
America, and that she was on her way to join him. On pleasant days 
she came on deck, never without the child, and it had become an 
object of interest to all on board. One fine day she was missed from 
her accustomed place ; inquiry developed the fact that the child was 
sick; the next day it was no better, and the third brought anxiety. 
A dangerous and malignant fever developed and as the days wore by, 
one by one, all hoped for the best but feared the worst. The first in- 
quiry in the morning was for the condition of the child, no one seeming 
satisfied until they had heard from it. And when the announcement 
was made on the morning of the ninth day that the baby was dead, a 
feeling of almost superstitious sadness took possession of every breast, 
and human sympathy, God's richest earthly gift to man, flowed out 
pure and ardent toward the stricken mother. 

It is useless for us to attempt to describe that lone mother's grief. 
Some of our readers — themselves mothers — have sat beside their dead 
infant, in a cozy room in a comfortable home, surrounded by husband 
and friends, and have felt their sorrow hopeless. But even they can 
have but a faint conception of the utterly crushing weight that brought 
this mother to the verge of despair. The morrow came ; even the sky 
seemed sad ; dull, heavy clouds drifted before a stiffening breeze, that 
at the same time lashed the turbid waters into fierce waves that seemed 
to chase each other in anger ; far out as the eye could reach the expanse 
of ocean was flecked with white caps, that anon were lifted and scat- 
tered in shivers of spray. Gathered on the slippery deck were the 
entire human cargo— passengers, officers and crew. A solemn awe 
rested on every heart. Resting on a plank, sewed up in coarse canvas 



OUR HOUR ALONE 251 

cloth was the body of the child, standing a little to one side of the 
captain was the mother ; near the plank stood a detail of seamen ready 
at the given signal to consign the body to the deep. Not a sound is 
heard for a minute but the creaking of the pulleys, the moaning of 
the wind, and the angry splash of the waves breaking on the sides of 
the ship. The silence is getting oppressive, when the clear voice of 
the captain rises over the wail of the wind and the moaning of the 
waters, reading the beautiful burial service of the Episcopal Church. 
As he pronounces the words, "We commit this body to the deep," 
strong arms lift the plank, tilt it over the gunwale, a dull thud comes 
back from the waters, a piercing wail breaks from the bosom of the 
mother, and the most solemn scene on earth closes. 

Dear reader, if your eye is dimmed by the moisture of a tear, stop 
not to apologize. As we sit here tonight, in the deep stillness, with a 
gentle rain falling, one of those rains that drive in the heart upon itself, 
and look out on the stormy sea, and lonely ship, and bereaved mother 
that our pen has just pictured, we thank God that tears well up from 
the fountain of the soul to dim our vision. 

And now, dear reader, thank God that your dear little dead 
treasures are resting on the hillside, in the quiet graveyard, where you 
can visit the green mound that covers them from your sight, and while 
you water it with your tears, you can remember that yours is not the 
depth of human suffering. 

Turning the Leaves 

The pulsations of the great heart of the world has the measured 
beat of rest — of repose. An incident of the day has given a few sub- 
jects for thought to dwell upon during the hour consecrated to solitude 
and self. 'i, 

Two children — the one a girl of eight, the other a boy of six — took 
down a book, and both wanted to turn the leaves. It was a simple 
incident; it was, withal, a very natural one, and, perhaps, that was 
the reason it impressed itself upon our mind, and now comes back to 
claim our attention. 

Ah ! how many of life 's trials, and sorrows, and griefs, and bitter 
regrets might be avoided, were it not that when two of us meet, we 
each want to "turn the leaves." 

We have seen two girls, of nearly mature years, whose position 
in society was envied by many, and whose friendship might have been 
as lasting as the measure of their years ; but alas ! that friendship per- 
ished because both insisted on "turning the leaves." 

Two brothers recur to us now ; they were endowed with many fine 
qualities of head and heart; their 's had been a life of more than ordi- 



252 OUR HOUR ALONE 



nary promise ; but when the book was to be examined, both of them 
insisted on "turning the leaves," and from that point we trace out two 
diverging paths, thickly strewn with the wrecked peace and concord of 
two hearts that but for this would have been loving and true. 

A vision of noble manhood and lovely beauty is before us. He 
was the pride of a happy home, and much of promise clustered around 
his prospects for the future. She was the idol of fond parents, the 
hope of brothers and sister, and the delight of friends. They had met 
in the social circles, had mutually admired, had plighted sacred troth, 
in the sight of angels, and in the fear of God. The cup of earthly bliss 
was touching their lips, but in an evil moment a selfish desire that each 
must "turn the leaves," dashed that cup of bliss to the earth, estranged 
two loving hearts, and filled two widely separated graves with broken 
hearted inmates. 

Here are two whose hands have fondly clasped, and whose hearts 
have truthfully responded to the words their lips have spoken, when 
they promised to love, cherish and protect each other until death 
should them separate. Scarce has the honeymoon ended, when an in- 
sane desire seizes upon each to "turn the leaves," and alas! the 
estrangement of two loving hearts is accomplished ; two hearts become 
the graves of blasted hopes and faded joys, and life — that might have 
been a grand and noble thing to each — has lost its fair, bright bow 
of promise, while the darkness of the storm cloud has shrouded in eter- 
nal gloom, the brightness of their opening years. 

Here is a happy home — emblem of the world above, where sin no 
more may mar our joys, nor trouble longer murder rest — a father's 
silvery hairs tell that the fleeting years of phantom life is more than 
half escaped. A mother's wrinkled brow bears traces of the years, 
years that have flown on glad and joyous wings, while in obedience to 
the great command, children have come to nestle in their bosoms, and 
link their souls in sweeter bonds of love. Ah! surely none but Satan, 
himself cast out of heaven, could here invade to murder peace and lay 
the envenomed dagger to the heart of hope. But no ; of far less hideous 
form, but still of far more power to turn this Eden to a desert, dismal, 
dark and hopeless, the subtle tempter comes. The book is taken down, 
and — oh, feeble, tempted, lost and ruined man! Both are determined 
to "turn the leaves," while good men mourn, and angels weep — if 
angels ever weep — o'er Paradise destroyed. 

But let our thoughts return to those two children who but today 
strove each to "turn the leaves." May it not be, dear readers of the 
Banner, that they were sent to us by Him whose love enfolds the 
humblest of His creatures, to preach to us a sermon? If such should 
be the case, let us receive the message as from God, and thus be 
warned that far the larger share of happiness is lost, if in our inter- 



OUR HOUR ALONE 253 

course with men we each resolve that we shall "turn the leaves." And 
more, that half of heaven is won, if we can be content to read the 
leaves that other's hands have turned. If, in these random thoughts, 
a balm be found for any wounded soul, or but one bitter pang be spared 
a human heart, well pleased, we say. Good night. 

A True Story 

Pekin, the county seat of Tazewell county, situated some distance 
below Peoria, is sometimes called "the Celestial city." It is not our 
intention to describe the town or the inhabitants. But an incident in 
its recent history has come to our knowledge, and we cannot drive it 
from our memory, although it serves to awaken a very disagreeable 
train of reflections. 

It was the glad and merry season of the holidays that would close 
out 1881, and usher in the hopeful era of 1882. The Christmas festiv- 
ities were over. Over the ridges of sand, and out on the blue, placid 
waters of the Illinois, had floated the mellow sound of the glad bells, 
calling crowds of joyous children — and we might say, adults, too — to 
assemble in the sumptuously furnished churches to listen to the story 
of the "Babe of Bethlehem." It was the burden of the exercises, that 
away back, eighteen hundred years ago, in the hill country of Judea, 
while shepherds watched their flocks by night, the angels came down, 
with a glad new song, the burden of which was "Peace on earth, good 
will to men." And then appeared a multitude of the heavenly hosts, 
shouting glad hosannas, and praising God. 

Childish eyes glistened, while young hearts were fired, and youth- 
ful minds filled with wonder, as in imagination they sat on a rugged 
mountain side, overlooking the town of Bethlehem, and the plains of 
Judea, and saw the glittering wings of the angel host, and heard the 
soft, heavenly music floating away over hill and valley, and echoing 
and re-echoing everywhere, "Peace on earth, good will to men." Then 
were those children admonished that the poor must be remembered; 
that all God's creatures must be made glad by gifts. And those gifts 
are given. From arch, and cross, and tree, and manger, and boat, 
costly gifts made glad the hearts of both donor and receiver. 

Thank God for civilization, and schools, and churches, and chil- 
dren, and Christmas. 

A single week has passed on time's unseen but swift and silent 
wings. The old year is dying. Here and there a watch party has 
counted the fleeting moments that marked the close of Saturday night, 
as well as of the year. A spirit of thankful praise filled many hearts, 
as the solemn sound of the measured hammer told the hour of twelve, 



254 



OV B HOUR A L ONE 



and ushered in the "glad new year." The blessed Sabbath morning 
broke over Pekin, and called her citizens to rejoice in the goodness of 
God and the humanity of man. 

On one of the streets of Pekin stands a miserable hovel ; it is the 
abode of a poor emaciated vi^idow, whose pinched features and ill-clad 
limbs show extreme poverty. One year ago her lot was in more pleas- 
ant places. Her husband turned his loving glance toward her, as she 
prepared the morning meal, while the children were eagerly prying 
into the mysterious receptacles where Santa Glaus had left his boun- 
tiful favors. But time flew; disease came; the husband lost the 
strength of his manhood; he lingered, and wasted and died, while in 
the desperate struggle to baffle the fell destroyer the little hoard that 
frugality had laid by, wasted and disappeared, too. A lonely widow, 
she stood by the side of one of the open graves of 1881 — Oh ! God, that 
hers had been an isolated case — and felt that she was indeed stricken 
and alone. She turned from that fresh mound of earth where her 
heart's treasure was forever hidden, and gathering her children about 
her she returned to her desolate hearth, and looked the dismal, gloomy, 
cruel, cold and dark world in the face, and her heart sank within her. 
Still she bravely entered upon the unequal struggle. Over-work 
brought on disease; want came; the children suffered; humbler lodg- 
ings were sought, until on this bright Sabbath morning of a new year 
we find her in this wretched hovel, too poor to pay the rent demanded 
by — well by one devoid of conscience. She has been warned to leave, 
and now at the hour of 10 o'clock a. m., this villain, this fiend in human 
form, comes and puts her and her helpless little ones out into the 
street. Yes, here in Pekin, this sick widow, with the helpless babes 
clinging about her, looks up and down the street, and hears rich silks 
rustle, and sees costly jewelry glisten, while the rich mellow tones of 
the bells, calling them to worship, calls us back to the hills of Judea 
and the babe of Bethlehem. 

The episode is ended. Our information goes no farther, and we 
sincerely wish that we had never heard of it ; for as we sit here tonight, 
we are vainly trying to solve the problem of what became of her, or 
why God permitted her to live for such a fate. 

It is not our purpose to melt your sympathy to tears, dear readers 
of the Banner, but as you sit in your comfortable homes and read this 
imperfect narrative, which is true in every particular, if your sympa- 
thies are awakened for this poor widow, thus deprived of shelter in 
mid-winter, and your lip trembles, and your eyes become bedimmed by 
moisture, be not ashamed, for sympathy for the sufferings of others is 
the great distinguishing feature between man and the lower animals. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 255 

Selfishness 

Selfishness is natural to all those who have not breadth of char- 
acter. It is a vice that should be guarded against, as it not only 
destroys peace of mind in those whom it possesses, but it takes away 
the rights of those with whom they come in contact. There is no love, 
no warmth, no pity, no tenderness in selfishness, but it is hateful, cold, 
hard-hearted and revengeful. It looks on others as prey to be fol- 
lowed, captured, despoiled and devoured. It is a tyrant who refuses 
to reign in a divided kingdom ; it claims the entire throne ; it tolerates 
no rival ; it acknowledges no superior. It wraps its victim in vestments 
that leave them no more freedom than does those linen bandages that 
for thousands of years have confined the hands and the feet of the 
Egyptian mummy. There is a touch of it that seemingly belongs to 
human nature ; it may be that in its proper place it has a utility, and 
that it is placed there by the Creator as a balance wheel in the ma- 
chinery of existence. But it is not one of those things that we can 
afford to cultivate, as we can those graces that are not shadowed by 
self, and that, in the cultivation, grow out toward others, and make 
us interested in their happiness, their honor, their honesty, their wel- 
fare and their success in life. We should sedulously guard against it 
as we would against some deadly enemy, some contagion that we knew 
would destroy. The plans, the purposes, the aspirations, the ambitions 
of those in its grasp are all circumscribed in the daily circle where fall 
their own shadows, for self is all and in all to them, and become entire 
strangers to all that goes on outside of this little world, ruled by a 
tyrant who has no desires above the gratification of wants that are 
not admitted to reach beyond his own desires. There are degrees of 
this mean attribute, and they vary from those that are not — so far as 
we can see — objectionable, to that which so changes its votary that 
the shell in which he exists — for such a being can scarcely be said to 
live — is all that indicates that he belongs to an order of animals above 
those that follow a blind, unreasoning instinct, and have not the power 
of reasoning. It is needless to state that such a being is useless on 
earth, and would be out of his element in heaven. 

Closely allied to selfishness, is greed, or the desire to possess 
things, not so much because they will do any real good, but simply to 
gratify an intense desire. This greed — if indulged — degenerates into 
avarice, that passion that goes lower than selfishness because it schools 
to not only forget others, but self as well, in the insane desire to have. 
Avarice develops the miser, and the miser foolishly starves his own 
body, deprives it of decent apparel, puts it in a hovel, covers it with 
dirt, denies it every pleasure, in order that the fingers may scrape up 
the piles of glittering dust, and that the eyes may be feasted on dollars 



256 OUR HOUR ALONE 



that are only hoarded to be worshiped; dollars that have become a 
god, supreme— so far as he is concerned— in that they command the 
all of worship and reverence that one so lost to noble impulses can give. 
The selfish man refuses to regard or pity others; the miser refuses 
regard or pity for himself. 

If we wish to see how nearly the image of God can come to being 
entirely defaced, obliterated, destroyed, we have only to go and study 
the character of the man who is thoroughly selfish, or that of the one 
who is a complete miser. It will make us glad to know that there are 
those who deny that the image of the Creator can ever be wholly 
destroyed and obliterated, and insist that it is only covered up and 
hidden by the vile dross that covers it in a fallen state, and that when 
this dross is removed and the concealments taken out of the way, the 
image will appear in all its original grandeur and beauty. 

It is well to look on such pictures occasionally, in order that we 
realize how far man can get away from what he was intended to be, 
and also that we the more appreciate generosity and liberality, two 
other attributes that — if cultivated — burnish the moral image until it 
becomes so like the original that we may almost forget that sin and 
folly have ever defaced it. 

That man is not perfect is apparent. The life of every one shows 
it so plainly that not for a moment can it be doubted. This imperfect 
creature is in the world for a purpose. These attributes are given to be 
cultivated or retarded in growth. Those that would lead us farther 
away from the source of all goodness should be restrained. Those that 
would lead us nearer to goodness of heart and purity of life are to be 
given full play. As these attributes are curbed or expanded we gain 
character as good or bad people. Those who forget self in their desire 
to help up and lift others are the most happy here and hereafter. Those 
who forget others and cling to selfish purposes are despised here, and 
will be rejected hereafter. 

Actual Knowledge 

The most important events in our lives, those that concern us the 
most, are those over which we have no control. We find ourselves here 
moving about in this world, but we know not anything of how we 
came into it, how long we are likely to remain, or how, or what the 
manner of our going out of it will be. 

There is a natural curiosity in man that urges him on to find out 
the dim and the obscure. Like the shepherd who left the ninety and 
nine in the fold and went out to seek for the one that was astray, man 
leaves the known to speculate and wonder and guess about what is 
either not known at all, or, at the best, but dimly shadowed. 



'A 



OUR HOUR ALONE 257 

Too many spend their lives in this speculation, and at its close 
discover that they know as little, or even less than when they began 
to study. 

Two great facts are too prominent to be controverted — one is that 
man, of his own knowledge, can never explain how he came ; the other 
is that he knows, of his own knowledge, nothing of whither he is 
going. 

However, hard it may for us to say so, however humbling to 
human pride it may be, we are compelled to acknowledge that only 
revelation casts a ray of light back on the path of our lives, or forward 
to the future that is before us. It may be said by some that revelation 
is not true. Very well ; that does not help the former difficulty. If reve- 
lation be not true, then are we left to beat our wings of thought, like 
the captive bird, against the prison bars of those cages that only death 
can open. 

Or, like the chained captive, we may tug and strain, to break a 
fetter that must continue to bind us until the great deliverer with 
the chisel and hammer of death sets us at liberty. 

But is it the part of wisdom to lacerate our wings beating those 
bars we know can never be opened in this world? Is it well to wear 
out our lives in ineffectual attempts to break chains too strong for 
limited power? 

Are there not other duties that can be attended to by us while 
here, that not only do us no harm, but will do others good? Most 
certainly there are. They are the too often despised every day duties 
of life. To help to lift a load here, to bear a burden there, to speak 
a kind word, to comfort some mourning soul, to wipe a tear from the 
face of sorrow, to reclaim an erring brother, to left up a fallen sister. 
Oh! How many pleasant duties come up — pleasant if approached in 
a spirit of love and charity. 

Thank God! Man is so constituted that happiness is found in 
action rather than repose. Then dear readers of the Banner, gird 
on your armor for the battle and strike sturdy blows in the battle 
of life. With eye made keen by searching for human wants, with 
ears sensitive to the cry of human suffering, and hearts overflowing 
with pity for the poor, the needy, the oppressed, yea even for the 
fallen, fail not to meet your individual responsibilities and duties. 

Mother Love 

The word picture "Mother," occupies, in our arrangement, the 
second position. It is, as we have before remarked, not quite so 
universal as the word picture "God," from the fact that some lose 
this picture before memory has acquired retention. But if not so uni- 



258 OUR HOUR ALONE 



versal, it is more easily agreed upon, as but few will contradict the 
assertion that Mother is the sweetest sound on earth. 

Of course we know that there have been unnatural mothers; 
mothers who have lost not only the maternal instinct, but all feelings 
of humanity as well. But these isolated cases only serve to make 
this picture more bright and glorious, from the contrast. 

If there be one theme more than all others upon which we feel 
entire inability to express ourselves it is the one we are now con- 
sidering. Woman has filled so important a part in the history of the 
world, and we have such a high regard for her in every position that 
she adorns, that our admiration is kindled outside of the particular 
case we are now treating on. When we remember that she is the 
angel of mercy to suffering humanity ; when we consider that she has 
been the companion and advisor of man in every relation of life ; that 
she has never failed to exhibit the loftiest heroism and the most 
exalted patriotism; when we see her facing the most iminent danger 
with unblanched cheek ; when we see her on the field of battle — not 
as the reason-dethroned contestant for the doubtful honor of success — 
but as the Heaven sent messenger pouring in the balm and cordial, 
speaking of hope to the living and consolation to the dying; as we 
behold her unblanched even amidst the most appalling dangers, we are 
doubtful if another picture should not have been placed with the 
three chosen. 

But great, and loving as she no doubt is as a woman — as a wife — 
she far transcends them all as a mother. 

When the gentle breath of the helpless infant is felt upon her 
cheek, a thousand new, strange and sweet — and may we not say 
Heaven-born impulses spring into active existence. When the first 
wailing cry of that tiny image of her own being falls on her entranced 
ear, emotions are born that are immortal. When those eager little 
lips, for the first time, draw sustenance from the warm fount of the 
maternal breast, devotion is kindled that never can be quenched. As 
she looks into those little orbs that are raised with wonder to her 
own, a faith is felt that nothing can ever shake. And as she clasps 
the helpless, tender charge to her heart, and realizes that her blood 
courses in those litle veins, and throbs in every pulsation of that little 
engine of life, she suddenly realizes that a mysterious change has 
taken place, a change that is only to be compared to a new creation. 

What mother does not remember those emotions? And has she 
not wondered as the mighty deep of a mothers love is rippled with 
the first infant breath ? Ah ! that deep is unfathomable, it is boundless 
and eternal. It cannot be measured, nor weighed, neither can it be 
analyzed or understood. That love reaches through time, and will 
be continued in eternity. In honor and dishonor; in poverty and 



OUR HOUR ALONE 269 

riches ; in evil report and good report ; in hope and in fear ; in joy and 
in sorrow; in prosperity and adversity; in sickness and health; in 
sanity and insanity ; in life and in death, it never falters, it never fails. 
The child may be despised, she loves it ; it may be disgraced, she loves 
it ; it may be loathsome, she loves it ; it may be a criminal, she loves it ; 
it may reach the scaffold, her love stands there beside it, and when 
the vital spark has left the mortal tenement, she bends over the life- 
less clay and utters lamentations that none but a mother can ever 
utter. 

Let us contemplate this picture from any standpoint, and it shines 
with a brightness, a glory not born of earth. If there was no other 
proof of the existence of a God who is love, a mother's love would be 
as conclusive as a demonstrated fact. 

As we sit here tonight — the eleven o'clock trains having passed 
some time ago — the weird and mysterious silence of "Midnight's 
holy hour," already settling around us, the dim and spectral fancies 
of the ''Ghostly night," spreading themselves about us, and the un- 
certain light flickering over our fancied gallery, we bow before this 
word picture "Mother," and feel that we are in the presence of the 
most sacred thing on earth. 

Blot out this picture, and you blot out civilization; destroy it 
and you destroy the sunlight of humanity; mar it, and you mar that 
which is next to God. 

The influence of this word picture can not be estimated, weighed 
or measured; and as we prepare to lay aside our inadequate pen, 
and bid the Banner readers good night, we say as our parting admoni- 
tion, let your reverence for your mother be akin to your love for, and 
devotion to Him who gave you life, and with that life, a mother's 
ceaseless love. 

What Home Is 

Home ! The word picture home ! What memories, what emotions 
it awakens in the heart. "There is no place like home." Beautiful 
bordering for such a grand and noble picture. Home ! Father, mother, 
brothers, sisters, children, husband and wife, all embraced in this 
magic word. It was our promise to speak in regard to the influence 
each of these word pictures had exerted on the history of civilization. 
But what shall we say of this? Without it civilization itself would 
want even a name. 

It is the sweetest sound on earth to the weary traveler in a dis- 
tant land; it is the uppermost thought in the bosom of every son of 
toil, cheering him with the dear prospect of repose and love at even- 
tide. It comes like a symphony of heavenly music to the shipwrecked 
sailor on life's treacherous sea, who has — Enoch Arden like — been 



260 OUR HOUR ALONE 



watching for a sail. It visits the troubled fancy of the fatally wounded 
soldier, and bathes the scorching plain and arid waste with the glow 
of Paradise. It comes to lift the beacon light of hope, and promise, 
and love to earth's toiling, struggling millions everywhere. It may 
be a palace, rich and glittering with affluence and wealth; it may be 
the palatial residence of the successful merchant; it may be the con- 
tented home of the mechanic ; it may be the humble home of the day 
laborer ; it may be the hut where poverty keeps up its perpetual strife 
with want, but it is home. It is the synonym of peace, of contentment, 
of joy, of happiness, of love. 

Yes, the idea of God, of mother, of happiness, of heaven itself 
is comprised in this picture, and looks down into our human hearts, 
with a gentle, loving, persuading, tender look, that inspires these 
hearts with new zeal for God, and more love for our fellow man. 

Dear reader of the Banner, have you a happy home ? If you have, 
let no demon tempt you to mar its sacred beauty. Let no seductive 
influence persuade you to forget its holy scenes. But let your purest 
affection cling to the blissful spot where a father has guided with his 
precious counsel, a mother has watched and prayed over your open- 
ing intellect, a sister's devotion has hallowed the memory of your 
lives, a noble, disinterested brother has warned with words of wisdom, 
children have clung to you with filial devotion, and a loving wife 
has lavished the full wealth of woman 's undying devotion. That home, 
over which angels have hovered in deep solicitude, while the voice 
of Deity itself has sweetly, lovingly, tenderly said: "I have given 
you this foretaste of Heaven, this type of supreme felicity — the word 
picture, home." 

But a tinge of holy sadness came to mar the sacred pleasure our 
picture gives — God grant, dear reader — but no; the tenderer, holier, 
deeper feelings of human hearts can only thus be stirred. A blot is 
on the picture, a moisture dims our vision. Here a father went out 
from this home to the home eternal. A tear — but pardon it, for tears 
were given for this. Here a mother laid down her saintly head, gave 
her last token of love, too pure to dwell on earth, and with that love 
entered the pearly gates. A sister faded there and died. A brother 
felt the chilling hand of death, and thus a love was lost that nothing 
else could dim. And here — Oh! mystery sublime, too hard for us to 
understand— the infant perished from our sight, the prattling child, 
the tendrils of whose love had twined themselves so closely around 
the very vitals of our heart — faded, died, and left our picture marred. 

But, lest we stir the deeper fountain of your parent heart — which 
heaven forbid we should — and leave the traces of tell-tale tears on 
your cheeks, too, we say again. Good night. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 261 

What Will the Future Be? 

What will the future be? No other question, perhaps, in all the 
range of human thought is asked so frequently, so universally, or so 
anxiously as this one. It concerns us all. It interests us all. 

True, when we take up the life history of some one who seems to 
have been a peculiar favorite of fortune, we are apt to conclude that 
this obtrusive inquiry could never have pushed its perplexities on their 
attention. But we must remember that such an examination gives us 
the results, and not the every day experiences of their lives. Could 
we have entered the journey of life along side of them, and been their 
constant companion to the close, no doubt but our ears would have 
become familiar with this universal inquiry. 

But at best it is but few histories that give even this cast to 
thought. The history of man is the history of baffled hopes, lost op- 
portunities, miserable failures and blasted aspirations. The records 
of kings have given rise to the adage, "Uneasy lies the head that wears 
a crown." 

The researches of the naturalist discovers, for him, but a life of 
incessant toil. The historian's zeal to separate fact from fiction leads 
him to untold perplexities. The warrior's wreath is plucked amid the 
dangers of carnage. The physician's laurels must be grasped in one 
hand, while the scalpel of science embellishes the other. The states- 
man's dream of fame seldom terminates but in the dreadful nightmare 
of disappointment. The poet's finer sense of nature's matchless sym- 
phonies, is dulled by contact with the bitter, biting blast of penury 
and want. The painter's master piece is perfected while the wails of 
half fed children are appealing to him for bread. Burns reached the 
hearts of future generations, but failed to shield himself from want, 
and wandered desolate and alone among the soul inspiring scenes of 
his native Scotland. Byron will live as long as the English language 
endures, but he died broken hearted. 

Goldsmith stands alone in the peculiarities and beauty of his 
inimitable greatness, but he perished with the bright moon of his 
fame but in the crescent, Mrs. Hemans, with her pathetic music, will 
thrill unborn multitudes, yet she struck her sweetest chords in doubt, 
in fear, in distress both of body and mind. Pope stands pre-eminent 
above his persistent detractors, but he lived harassed by a multitude 
of foes. 

These, it is true, caught casual glimpses of coming renown, and 
saw half understood visions of the bright halo that in after years was 
to wreathe their fame in immortelles, but how often during the dark 
conflicts did the query come, "What will the future be?" 



262 OUR HOUR ALONE 



These are a few of the brighter examples that come to us this 21st 
of November, as we sit here in the mellow lamp light, with a sleep- 
ing world around us. But there are heroes whose history has never 
been written — nay, is not even conceived of — and will not be suspected 
until that supreme moment when the last trump shall call a dead uni- 
verse to life, and the troubled sea shall yield up her buried human 
treasures, and the bursting graves shall send forth their sheeted and 
silent occupants to swell the teeming multitudes who will witness the 
throes of a dying universe, the astonishing wonders of an infinitely 
just Judge and impartial tribunal. Then from the unassuming throng 
of God's suffering poor will come heroes, before the splendor of whose 
immortal fame the brightest stars in all earth's cherished galaxy will 
pale and dim. But these, too, have gone through life with the absorb- 
ing query trembling on their tongues, "What vsall the future be?" 

Dear reader, have you doubts, and fears, and heavy burdens 
grievous to be borne? Do you imagine that your cross is a peculiar 
one ? Are you fainting on the highway of life ? Is the terribly earnest 
question, "What will the future be," coming to you daily or hourly? 
If so, take courage. These burdens, these trials have been borne by 
many before you. This life is a battle field ; we are soldiers ; death 
brings our discharge, and Heaven is the pension land. Good night. 

Starving 

One scene comes up before us tonight. It seems but trivial. It 
is of the most humble character, but it obtrudes — and we give it. 

It was Tuesday, November first, 1881. We were picking our way 
along Monroe street, Chicago. It was afternoon, and though but 
November, its chilling wind made us shiver, though warmly clad, and 
we buttoned up our overcoat as the searching breeze from lake Michi- 
gan began to seek out the marrow of one's bones. 

Our attention was attracted by the peculiar wailing cry of a sick 
child, and on looking up we beheld a sight that so photographed itself 
upon our memory, that now, as we are alone to think, it shuts out 
every other picture. 

It was the most miserable and wretched looking family that we 
had ever seen. A little in advance was the husband and father, moving 
with that uncertain, unsteady and hesitating step that tells better than 
volumes could express it, that hope flickered with but a feeble glimmer 
in his breast. His garments were of the coarsest material and scarce 
covered his thin legs, while his face had that shriveled, pinched — and 
to me — awful look, that tells that starvation rather than disease, had 
wrecked his form. 

The mother followed several paces in the rear, carrying in her 
arms a child of perhaps two summers — the one whose wailing cry had 



OUR HOUR ALONE 263 

arrested our attention — whose whole frame was a mere skeleton. Its 
legs dangling over the mothers arms — were but little larger than an 
ordinary gas pipe, while they seemed to be long enough for a child 
of seven or eight. Its poor, little pinched face was as near hectic with 
fever — the fever of starvation— as was possible for a bloodless face to 
be. Between the husband and wife trudged two dirty, ragged, mis- 
erable looking children, perhaps four and six respectively, while follow- 
ing her was a boy of — well he might be ten or fourteen — for age had 
no chance to stamp itself on a form like his. He carried in his hand 
a small bundle knotted up in a dirty rag, more than likely containing 
the earthly possessions of the miserable family. 

They were in very fact but living skeletons, and in scanning 
them closely as they went by us, we could detect no expression on 
the face of any of them save that of sullen despair, except the mother. 
As she hugged the child to her scarce covered bosom, and tried to 
shield its trembling form with her poor skeleton arms, her sunken 
eyes gleamed with the bright and tender light of a mother's love, 
that holy affection that out-lives every other impulse of the human 
heart. 

They were by us in a minute, and it was with a very moist vision 
that we turned and watched that wretched family disappear in the 
busy, surging crowd. 

Reader, you have read of such scenes before ; so had we ; but did 
you ever witness one of them? Here was food for reflection. What 
placed them in such a condition? They had not the appearance of 
drinking people. No; they seemed to me to be simply starving, and 
that too, in a land of plenty, in a wealthy and prosperous city, whose 
bins and warehouses were bursting with food, a city where $20,000 
is expended in celebrating a silver wedding. 

As we turned on Fifth avenue, the single word starving, was the 
only one we could call up. 

It seemed a parrot tone, starving ! In vain we tried to argue that 
it must be their own fault, that it must be mismanagement on their 
part; all was lost in the recurring word starving! My God! Here 
under the sound of a religion taught from gilded pulpits, and listened 
to from crimson cushioned pews were God's poor literally starving! 

We remembered that but a few weeks before this great city 
expended thousands in mourning the death of a successful politician, 
while here was starving humanity, homeless, wandering, lost, and we 
involuntarily clinched our teeth, and shut our eyes for a moment, 
and the city was gone, and we saw the gentle Savior, and heard his 
loving voice, saying, "the poor ye have always with you." 



264 UB H OU R A LO N E 



Dear readers of the Banner, as you sit in your comfortable homes, 
and look around on your well fed households, imagine, if you can, 
that scene on Monroe street, Chicago, on Tuesday, November 1st, 
1881, and wonder not that we have been called to sketch no sadder 
incident in this silent Hour Alone. 

Homes 

It may be a simple clearing in the dense forests of Wisconsin, 
with a log cabin roofed with rough clap-boards, and floored with 
puncheons hewn out of the newly felled trees, the chinks between the 
logs daubed with clay taken from the rude well, but in that uncouth 
dwelling in the wilderness is the wife and the baby, the pictures and 
the books, the old family bible, and the altar where the sturdy 
wood-chopper bends in humble adoration before Him who has seen 
fit to set the world in families, to thank Him for these rougher, these 
humbler benefits, and to implore a continuance of them, and there is 
joy, and happiness, and love, and contentment there, for that se- 
questered spot is home, the dearest, the best, the most highly prized 
of all the spots on the face of the earth. 

The man who here strikes with keen blade the sturdy oak, and 
grubs the stubborn root, to sow the wheat and barley, to plant the 
corn and potato, is working for a purpose noble as ever was blazoned 
on banner or flag waving over the host of conquering army, for he 
labors for her he loves, and for the child that has two human hearts 
for thrones, and wields in either little hand a scepter. He may know 
but little of man's origin as it is sought after by the scientist, but 
he rests secure in the promise that in his "Father's house are many 
mansions," and he feels safe in the belief that man's future condition 
is more important to him than is the theory of man's possible evolu- 
tion from tadpole to monkey, and from monkey to man. With the 
past he has little connection, and it matters not that dead peoples, 
and ruined nationalities, and crumbled thrones, and destroyed dyn- 
asties are covered with the mould of long drawn centuries, for who can 
change a single event that has been cast in history's unyielding 
mould? Or who recall a solitary purpose that has changed from some 
plastic present into the metallic past? He lives and breathes today, 
now, here, and for the present, and a purpose. He has a strong desire 
to live when worlds are dead. All future years are his, for he has 
come from God, and must return, and so he waits in faith, strong 
in hope, reliant in purpose. And thus he is the man — God made him 
that — the citizen — he chooses to be this — the patriot, too far from 
wealth for pride, and too remote from want to fear. 

It may be a hut standing away off on the interminable prairies of 
the Dakotas, lone, isolated, solitary and desolate in its surroundings. 



OUR HOUR ALONE 265 

not a shrub to shade from fiercest rays of sun, nor bough to break 
the keen, cold penetrating blasts that drive the snow in particles 
so fine, they sift through paneled doors, as they rush down 
from frozen barriers of the north, where hidden lie so much 
that man desires to know. But it is home, for here again 
is wife, and child, and love, the books, the pictures, the plan, the pur- 
pose, and the reverence for God, and hope for independence when 
the sere and yellow leaf of life has come. He stands beside the few 
rough boards that shelter those he loves, as evening's curtain swathes 
the world in darkness, and gazes up to worlds above his own, and 
knows that telescopes would show him other worlds, and that beyond 
their power lie other worlds and systems, so vast, so great that finite 
man's conception fails and he is lost; and then his eye returns to earth, 
and rests where virgin sod is touched by star-gemmed sky, his thoughts 
go back to other scenes, a church, a congregation clad in Sabbath 
dress, himself a careless boy, he hears adown the lapse of years, 
in solemn tone the man of God exclaim, "What is man that Thou art 
mindful of him, or the son of man that Thou visitest him." And he 
pushes open the door and enters the most sacred place in all earth's 
vast domain — a home. His all is here, and here he rests content, nor 
dreams of millions to be won, nor fears he want while God gives 
strength to turn the stubborn glebe. 

It may be on the mountain side perches the low built, dirt covered 
ground floored and unpretentious hut that shelters the wife and babe 
of hardy mountaineer. Above them piled in wild disorder, rises crag 
o'er crag, and peak high over peak, lifting their snow capped heads 
in heavens cerulean blue, where sunlight glitters all their dizzy heights 
in blazonry of beauty, while far below this eyrie where his young is 
safe, the sinuous Yellowstone rolls a golden thread, rushing through 
wild, romantic scenes to mingle its floods with the murky waters of 
the sluggish Missouri. The little valley, rich in soil of rocks fine 
pulverized by ages of corrosion, yields bountifully to his toil. He 
knows the dangerous pass, the tortuous defile, and follows to his lair 
the fiercest denizens of these old hoary rocks. He has a plan, a pur- 
pose. Love nerves his arm to toil ; love gives the steady eye ; love 
plants his step on peak till now thought inaccessible. That structure 
is his home. God speaks to him amid these rougher scenes; he sees 
where nature has hurled and heaved in giant combat. As he looks 
on nature in her wilder moods he feels how little man really is; and 
so he, too, grows strong — not in conceits, but in a simple faith that 
He who uprears these cliffs, piles up the buttresses of rocks, scoops out 
the valleys fair, and cuts the canyon dark and deep, has wisdom, power 
and might, and thus he learns to look from nature up to nature's 
God. 



266 OUR HOUR ALONE 

As we sit here tonight and list to cricket's chirp, and note the 
plaintive cry of katydid, we see such homes by millions multiplied; 
they dot the land ; they form a bulwark round us no foe may scale 
or batter down. And as we sit and muse this solemn hour of night, 
Yates City wrapped in sleep secure and sweet, we can but think that 
in these homes where dwell in peace our happy middle class, where 
daily toils are met, where daily victories are won, where incense rises 
up from altars where fathers bow, and mothers bend the knee, and 
children learn that character is all there is in life, that justice will 
be done, that purity is bliss, that manhood's noblest measure is the 
man who knows his duty to himself, his fellow man and God, and 
acts this knowledge in its broader sense — these give us strength; in 
them lie our security. 

The rich and overfed become tyrannical, oppressive and danger- 
ous. The poor and underfed become lawless and often criminal. But 
the homes of the great middle class are the walls of safety that rise 
around our nation. Yes, dear readers of the Banner, the christian 
homes of America are more to her than armies, and navies, and wealth. 
They make her great. 



Poems 



AWAKENED FROM A DREAM 

Oh, did you ever sleep and dream some sweetly pleasant dream, 
In which your bark sailed gently down some smoothly flowing stream, 
Whose banks were lined with stateliest trees, of richest foliage rare; 
Where thousand fragrant flowers combined to scent the balmy air; 

And heaven's blue sky was bending o'er, a dome so rich and grand, 
It seemed the transcript of some scene in fabled fairy land, 
With here and there a fleecy cloud, tinged with a band of gold. 
Like those of ideal skies, found in some picture quaint and old? 

A dream in which your lines of life seemed filled with much of bliss, 
Your lips all tremulous with joy from pleasure's honeyed kiss? 
A dream so sweet you feared to wake, lest waking you should find, 
Some wave of human sorrow break across your peaceful mind? 

Just such a dream was ours; it lasted twenty fleeting years, 
And then we woke to pain, and grief, and all earth's bitterest tears. 
Yes, woke to find how much of woe, these human hearts can bear; 
To feel how hopeless is that grief, how helpless every prayer. 

She came and nestled in our arms, the tiniest, shrinking child. 

And grew among us, as some flower grows in the dingle wild; 

But ah! She was the climbing plant, and twined her tendrils round our heart 

So closely, that it caused a pang to think that we might part. 

Her form was not divinely fair, nor features cast in beauty's mold; 
She had no wealth of raven hair, nor drapery's costly fold 
To lend a grace, a charm, or make her features lovely seem; 
But goodness shone in every glance, and by its radiant gleam 

We saw the beauty of her life, saw her full power to blend 

The hearts of all she mingled with, into her heart — a friend; 

Saw that the magic of her love wrought out the kindliest deeds, 

And that she culled life's fairest flowers, but shunned its useless weeds. 

Saw that she left the child in smiles she lately found in tears, 

That every tale of woe and want, reached her attentive ears; 

And that she scattered sunshine where she found but clouds and gloom. 

And left the incense of her deeds, where poverty found room. 

267 



268 POEMS 

The loveliest flower will droop and die, in autumn dark and chill; 
The beauty of the sunset fade from meadow, vale, and hill; 
The glory of the starry night will merge into the brighter day; 
The finest frostwork of the morn, melt in the noontide ray. 

We saw her droop like lovely flower, and fade like sunset grand. 
The glory of her star merge in the brighter heavenly land; 
The frostwork of her life melt in the softer, warmer ray 
Of sunlight pouring o'er the morn of the eternal day. 

She died; and we awoke from our transcendent dreams of bliss; 
Awoke to find that Dora's lips no longer answered with a kiss. 
And we have laid her gently down, to sleep the last long, silent sleep, 
Where but the shining angel bands, her nightly vigils keep. 

While we are sleeping other sleeps, and dreaming other dreams; 
And catching here a glimpse of joy, and there some beatific gleams 
Of angel wings, that hover o'er our slumbers in the night, 
And hear- their whispered words, "Cheer up, ye walk by faith and not by 
sight." 

CHILDREN 

If there be one place below, where heaven dwells. 
In all its beauteous, radiant glories mild, 

A place where purest, best emotion swells. 

It must be in the guileless heart of some sweet child. 

And as we stand, with reverence, in their sight, 

Wrapped in our foulness, steeped in sin and shame. 

How lost to hope would be our hapless plight — 

Compared with theirs, our boasted love how tame. 

And when we come with these vile natures fraught, 

With such a load of sorrow and of sin. 
How will we be by their example taught. 

To see the foulness of the heart within. 

For he who comes for wisdom to a child. 
Must needs be better, by the coming made, 

And he who learns from their example mild. 
Is nearer heaven than when he first obeyed. 

If purity and heaven be but one. 

The lives of children must be near to both. 

Nor far can we be from the Master's plan 
If we can do as these dear loved ones doth. 

For man may have a thousand vices on his soul, 
Yet if he comes in child-like faith to God, 

The sin-sick conscience will His power make whole. 
And hope will blossom as did Aaron's rod. 



POEMS 269 

And he who loves a child can not be wholly bad, 
Nor has he strayed beyond sweet mercy's power, 

Whose heart is in their joyous presence glad. 

And who, with them, can spend a gladsome hour. 

But he has ample reason to despair, 

Whose heart is shut to aught of childish love. 

For such — the Savior's own true words declare — 
Can never enter His blest courts above. 

Then may we love as doth the little child. 

And love our Father as the children do. 
That we may hear His accents, sweet and mild. 

Saying, "Well done, thou servants good and true." 



THE DIRTY FACED TAD 

The teacher stood in her little school. 
Thinking of lessons, discipline, and rule. 

And watching the pupils file in; 
And she felt dejected, disheartened and sad. 
For here was a dirty and ragged tad, 

Full of mischief as Satan of sin; 

And she knew that before the hour of noon — 
Perhaps some late! — but all too soon. 

The tad would bother her some; 
Perhaps he would pinch little Billy Scroggs, 
'Till he'd howl like one of the Deacon's dogs, 

Perhaps he'd be chewing gum. 

Perhaps he would "chick" like a flying squirrel, 
Or throw a sly kiss at the freckled-faced girl, 

Or stick a pin in the stolid dunce 
Who sits in the chair across the aisle. 
Causing the school to giggle and smile. 

While he moves a muscle — not once. 

But he looks at the ceiling and watches the flies. 
And starts in a sort of a dazed surprise. 

If the teacher calls his name. 
Then he rises and shuffles along the floor, 
'Till he stands between her chair and the door. 

With a downcast look of shame: 

Then digging a knuckle in either eye, 
He lingers to simper, and whimper, and cry. 
And say "it couldn't be me. 



270 P OEMS 

For I wath just sthudying ever stho hard, 
To get the lethen marked down on the card, 
And it could't a' been, you sthee." 

And he lies in her face with such elegant ease, 

And says with such vim, "may I take my stheat, pleathes?" 

That she never can punish him more. 
And he goes to his form with a grin on his phiz, 
And in less than a minute is at the old biz — 

Doing worse than he did before. 

The hour of noon had come and past, 
And aside hoop, kite and ball were cast. 

And the children were filing along; 
When the teacher — while dusting the desk and chair 
Saw the dirty faced tad come — humming an air — 

The last of the noisy throng. 

And she watched him come ambling up the aisle, 
While her sad, weary look gave place to a smile. 

As she spied in his dirty fist, 
A bouquet of sweet scented violets, 
That had bloomed in advance of the mignonettes. 

And other flowers on the list. 

And he poked the flowers up under her nose, 
And stood looking down and working his toes, 

"Pleathes my ma thaid I might, 
Tho I gathered a few ath I came to skuthel, 
They'll keep a good while if the air ith kule, 

And they'll be a pretty thsight." 

And she took them with feelings of real joy, 
And asked God to bless the mischievous boy — 

For she felt that he could not be bad — 
And she hoped that when life's ripened harvest had come. 
That boy would be bringing the golden sheaves home. 

No longer a dirty faced tad. 



POEMS 271 



THE MOTHER'S ANGUISH 

Oh! the anguish, bitter anguish, 
That sweeps o'er a mother's heart. 

When she comes to sort the wardrobe. 
Yes, the tiny little wardrobe, 
Of the dearest, late departed, 

Late departed from her heart. 

Oh! the garments, little garments, 
How they harrow up her soul. 

As she folds those little dresses, 
Yes, those dearest little dresses. 
Worn by her that's gone forever. 

Gone forever from her soul. 

Ah! the relics, yes, sad relics, 
How they speak of her that's gone; 

Oh! they speak in tones of sadness. 
Yes, in tones of deepest sadness. 
Speak those relics of the loved one, 

Of the loved one lost and gone. 

But the tresses, shining tresses. 
Taken from her golden hair. 

Oh! they set her tears to flowing, 
Yes, her bitterest tears to flowing 
For the one who wore those ringlets. 

Ringlets bright of golden hair. 

But thou darling! Oh, thou darling! 
Her fond heart will ne'er forget thee, 

Oh! by her thou'rt not forgotten. 
No! by her thou'rt not forgotten. 
Her true heart for thee will sorrow, 

Sorrow evermore for thee. 

But thou angel. Oh! thou angel. 
In the realms of light secure 

She feels that thou art happy. 
Yes, she knows that thou art happy, 
And she longs in heaven to meet you. 

Meet you thus in heaven secure. 



272 POEMS 

AWAY WITH IT! 

The evil of rum is the foulest blot 

That curses the land; and it heedeth not 

The cry of despair that is never forgot. 

By those who hear its wail. 
As it surges up from valley and town, 
Rolling out from cot, and mansion brown — 
From the poor in his rags — the king in his crown — 

Borne out on the sighing gale. 

The curse of rum is a ceaseless stream. 
Whose waves awake from a pleasant dream 
The good, the pure, the wise, who seem 

Too happy for such a fate; 
And it carries them down to fathomless caves. 
Where the tossing foam of the cataract's waves. 
Will bury them deep in dishonored graves — 

Will bury them soon or late. 

It comes to take bread from the hungry child — 
To sadden the life of the wife who smiled — 
To drive the aged father distracted and wild. 

To murder a sister fair; 
To banish the joy from a happy home, 
To scatter its inmates abroad to roam. 
To record their crimes in a bulky tome. 

To fill their souls with despair. 

It comes — like Satan — to Paradise, 

And weaves such a web of crafty lies. 

That the pure, the good, the noble, the wise, 

If they listen, are surely lost; 
One slays a child; one murders a wife; 
Here the suicide's deed is rank and rife; 
There a son has bereft a mother of life. 

While in maniac agonies wild. 

There is no crime but the drunkard's bowl 
Will place on the suffering human soul. 
No anguish nor sorrow it will not roll. 

With pitiless, cruel fate; 
For it is a demon, born in hell. 
Where pity died when the angels fell. 
And the wail of the damned was of hope the knell. 

Fixing their lasting state. 

Why stand we abashed when this monster appears? 
Why shrink we, and counsel alone with our fears? 
Why waste we the precious days, and the years, 
In which we might throttle this foe? 



P OEMS 278 

The plain path of duty shines bright as a star; 
It leads us to battle, it brings us to war; 
Duty tells us to banish this evil afar, 

To finish this author of woe. 
Are we craven and cowards while friends fall around? 
Must the blood of our brothers still cry from the ground? 
Will we turn a deaf ear to this terrible sound 

That comes to us year by year? 
Let us drive the vile traffic away from our land; 
For right, truth and justice together let's stand 
With a purpose of heart, and strength in our hafid 

To smite till the foe disappear. 

C. A. STETSON'S JERSEY JACKETS 

I. 

How dear to my heart is the new Jersey Jacket, 

A well-moulded figure 'twas made to adorn. 
I'm sure, as an elegant, close-fitting sacque, it 

Lays over all garments I ever have worn. 
Oh, my! with delight it is driving me crazy; 

The feelings that thrill me no language may tell. 
Just look at its color! Oh, ain't it a daisy. 

The new Jersey Jacket that Stetson does sell? 
The close-fitting jacket, the crimson-hued jacket, 

The new Jersey Jacket that Stetson does sell. 

II. 

It clings to my shoulders so tightly and neatly; 

Its fair, rounded slopes show no wrinkle or fold; 
It fits this plump figure of mine as completely 

As if I'd been melted and poured in its mould. 
How fertile the mind that was moved to design it. 

Such rhythm pervades each depression and swell! 
The waist would entice a strong arm to entwine it — 

The waist of the Jersey that Stetson does sell! 
The crimson-hued Jersey, the close-fitting Jersey, 

The new Jersey Jacket that Stetson does sell. 

III. 
Of course I will wear it to parties and dances, 

And gentlemen there will my figure admire; 
The ladies at me will throw envious glances. 

And that's just the state of affairs I desire; 
For feminine envy and male admiration 

Proclaim that their object's considered a belle. 
Oh, thou art of beauty the fair consummation. 

Thou new Jersey Jacket that Stetson does sell. 
The black-braided jacket, the close-fitting jacket. 

The new Jersey Jacket that Stetson does sell. 



274 POEMS 

I'LL MEET YOU THERE 

I'll meet you, my dear, where roses bloom. 

Where violets and snowdrops fair 
Are filling the air with rich perfume, 

Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 

I'll meet you where small birds are wont to sing 

Their gladsome songs of cheer. 
When welcoming back the early spring — 

Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 

I'll meet you when spring has come in power. 
To clothe all the trees that are bare, 

And cause them to blossom and bud in an hour — 
Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 

I'll meet you where whippoorwills doth cry. 

In voices silvery and clear. 
Where nature in slumber quiet doth lie — 

Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 

I'll meet you where golden sunlight bright 

Is streaming o'er valleys fair, 
Causing the heart to bound with delight — 

Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 

I'll meet you where summer's warm breath has come, 
And blossoms are scenting the air. 

That is wafting around your quiet home — 
Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 

I'll meet you amid the woodland grove. 

Where hearts to each other, dear, 
May gently whisper sweet words of love — 

Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 

I'll meet you beside the quiet stream, 

Where without a sign of fear 
The silvery fish on the ripples do gleam — 

Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 

I'll meet you at last, no more to part, 

No more to feel despair. 
Like a worm of canker, gnaw at my heart — 

Oh! may I not meet you there? 

Oh! may I not hope that from sorrow's brow 

You will kiss away the tear, 
And he who is penning these brief lines now, 

Will be happy to meet you there. 



POEMS 275 

A TRUE LOVE'S CHARMS 

Did love inspire the poet's song, 

A poet then thy love would be, 
And never from his soul be gone, 

That muse that still would sing of thee. 

Did distant duties call him far, 

Away from his loved home and thee, 
Thy love would be a polar star. 

To guide him o'er life's boisterous sea. 

And ever in the midnight hour. 

When danger's mightiest shafts should fly 
Around his path, with tenfold power, 

And not a star illume the sky — 

'Tis then he'd hear thy gentle voice, 
In loving accents, low, but clear — 
Bidding his inmost soul rejoice, 
For woman's holy love is here. 

Should e'er temptation's voice be heard. 

In siren accents, tempting me. 
And I should listen to her word. 

Nor yet the lurking danger see. 

'Tis then the memory of thy love — 

Like heaven's own voice — would bid me flee, 
And pointing — like the spire — above — 

Would whisper thus: "Remember me." 

If beauty, with her thousand charms. 

Should strive to win my heart from thee, 
And, opening her deceitful arms. 

Should claim but one embrace from me — 

'Tis then thine injured love would rise. 

In sorrowing tones, reproaching me; 
With such a vision on mine eyes. 

Think you that I'd prove false to thee? 

Ah no! just heaven itself would frown, 

And angel voices censure me. 
For trampling to this earth's cold ground, 

A love like that possessed by thee. 

Dear Sarah! in my inmost heart, 

I feel thy love enthroned must be — 
And if in death I first must part. 

In heaven I'll remember thee. 



276 POEMS 

JOE MATHEWS' FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY 

They say that I must dight my steed 

And mount him for a race; 
Though he be an inferior breed — 

Not fitted for the chase. 

In days when he and I were young 

We sometimes sought to climb — 
He had a wondrous power of lung — 

And I — I thought that I could rhyme. 

'Tis said at thirty years a man 

Suspects he is a fool; 
At forty feels 'twas Nature's plan — 

But scorns to change his rule. 

Age — if not wise — is garrulous. 

To prattle of the past; 
To give it chance is perilous. 

For then the die is cast. 

Here where we meet today 

To celebrate the birthday of a friend. 
To tell our little joke and play 

Our part, to give the time a merry trend. 

Not many years ago — as age counts years — 

The prairie grass bent o'er to greet the morning sun. 

Tipped with its pearly dew — like crystal tears 
Shed for a life that closed e'er well begun. 

Here lay a virgin soil as rich and fair 

As Eden was when Adam came; 
No balmier skies, nor softer, milder air. 

When summer suns poured down the livid flame. 

No furrow yet the stubborn glebe had broke. 
No harvest grain set free with weary flail; 

The frisky steer bore not the galling yoke. 
No shrinking udder filled the flowing pail. 

The coyote howl intoned the silent night. 

And French Creek's brush-clad banks 
Were peered by hoot owls of nocturnal sight. 

That preyed on all the feathered tribe of humbler ranks. 

Then came our fathers — the father of our friend — 
He built a cabin — a shelter for his wife. 



POEMS 277 

And here began his energies to bend, 

To brave the storms and court the calms of life. 

He had a fortune — in his strong right arm — 

A character — in his pure Scotch-Irish blood; 
He meant to carve from this prairie sod a farm — 

That was the dream for which he braved the Atlantic's flood. 

Within this cabin's walls his children were born — 

William, Thomas, Joseph, Robert, Jane, Sarah, Liza, Clara; 

The father died, at ripe old age, like shock of garnered corn — 
The older children, too, began to marry. 

A few years ago William B. died, 

Called away almost without a warning; 
But then his life was so close with heaven allied 

That this world's loss was but the better world's adorning. 

The mother — Clara — fell asleep — yes, that's the word. 

And left her dear ones bathed in sacred tears; 
They'll find her sometime risen with the Lord, 

And freed from sorrow, pain and earthly fears. 

And Sarah sleeps in Kansas soil. 

Fit sepulcher in which to find a grave; 
Her humble sons, though born to lives of toil. 

Would not permit the winds to kiss the brow of slave. 

And Tom went out to conquer in the war. 

And then went west to conquer Nature too. 
While Robert turned a hunter of bad men. 

And is a terror now to all the murdering thieving crew. 

But somehow Joe was left to tend the homestead farm 

And meet the ups and downs of rural life; 
He met its hopes, its fears, its false alarm, 

Nor shirked a burden nor a duty in the strife. 

And Joe is known to all his neighbors here, 

As honest, upright, gentle, true and brave; 
In duty's path to walk he does not fear — 

And scorns to be, to any vice, a slave. 

Well, call Joe's lack of cheek a fault; 

I admire the man because he has it not, 
1 know some men who do not lack — but halt! 

If one lives in a house of glass, another may attempt a shot. 



278 POEMS 

And Joe is 50, a half a century old! 

He stands upon the top where two sloped ladders meet, 
Looks backward o'er the track worn wold, 

And forward, where the close of life seems wondrous sweet. 

And we are here to give our friend God-speed, 

To shake his honest hand, and touch his loving heart. 

To give to manly worth the well earned meed. 
And speak our benedictions when we part. 

We hope that in the future years to come 

A stronger faith may blossom from our love. 

And howe'er far apart our lives may roam, 
That anchor bind us to the home above. 

And now let's give the day to joy, and love, and cheer; 

We'll vouch our hearts are with you, Joe; 
No hypocrite would dare to venture here, 

And you will class us loyal all, before 'tis time to go. 

And now God bless your family ties. 

Your worthy wife and children all; 
While love-light glitters in their beaming eyes 

You may not count your blessings over small. 

For God is good. And not a sparrow falls 

That is not in the shadow of His care. 
And while we grope around blind human walls 

His ear is bending o'er to catch our feeblest prayer. 

We fret because we fail to understand. 
We hesitate to step where Christ has trod, 

Too oft we fail to keep the great command 

To love our neighbor and sincerely worship God. 



LINES 
Written to a Friend, on the Death of a Pious Sister 

Oh! weep not friend, for her that's gone. 
And left thee here to toil alone; 
Her spirit's happy now on high, 
Where Christ, her Savior's ever nigh. 
Oh! weep not, that her toils are done. 
That home to heaven at last she's gone; 
Ah! weep not, friend, to think that she 
From all life's toils and cares is free. 

But let this truth your sorrow cheer. 
Whilst thou dost mourn in sadness here, 



POEMS 279 

Her soul shall sing that heavenly strain, 
"To die was my eternal gain." 
She fought the fight, she won the race, 
She triumphed through her Savior's grace. 
And found in death she had the power 
Of victory in a dying hour. 

Then let thy lovely sister sleep; 
She is not dead — why should you weep? 
Then weep not though thy sister ne'er 
On this dark world again appear; 
You soon will meet her in a home 
Where tears and partings never come. 
"Farewell till then," canst thou not say, 
And bid the tears of sorrow stay? 

I know 'tis hard to stay the tear 
Affection sheds upon the bier; 
To bid the raging storm be still 
And quell your sorrow when you will. 
I know 'tis hard to comfort those 
O'er whom the stream of sorrow flows; 
Yet would I fain see calm relief 
Come o'er the spirit worn with grief. 



LOST ON THE STORM-TOSSED LAKE 

In May, 1858, a tornado passed over Peoria, 111. George H. Beesman, with his family— a wife, three 
boys and one girl — were out on the lake in a row-boat. In the storm the boat was swamped, and only the 
husband succeeded in reaching the shore, the remainder of the family being lost. 

Far out on deep Peoria Lake, 

A genial, happy family went; 
They rowed along for pleasure's sake, 

Which through each heart new joys had sent. 
Within that boat a father's form. 

In manly strength and beauty stood. 
Nor thought upon the rising storm. 

That soon would lash an angry flood. 

His loving wife was with him there. 

His three brave boys — their father's pride — 
The daughter — like some lily fair — 

Was nestled at her mother's side. 
Hope gleamed in every tender glance. 

And shone in every sparkling eye. 
And little did they think, perchance, 

That ere the darkness they would die. 

But hark! along the trembling earth, 

There breaks a strange, a solemn sound; 



280 POEMS 



A fierce tornado springs to birth, 
And heaven's artillery rolls around. 

Each vivid flash of lightning broke, 

Upon the storm-cloud's darkness there — 

And man the help of Heaven invoked, 
While sank his heart in deep despair. 

But naught could quell the tempest's rage; 

It lulled to gather mightier power, 
Then hurled the earnings of an age. 

To swift destruction in an hour. 
It spared not learning's stateliest hall, 

Nor structures where, each Sabbath, trod. 
The humble ministers, to call, 

The creature man to worship God. 

But where. Oh! where were that small band? 

Alas no power on earth could save; 
The father reached the stormy land — 

His family found a watery grave. 
In frenzy, maddened by despair, 

He strove in vain to reach the shore — 
A wail of anguish filled the air — 

His loved ones sank to rise no more. 

Oh! who can tell the bitter pang. 

That pierced that father's heaving breast, 
As on his ear that loud wail rang. 

From out the surging water's crest? 
Or who dare words of comfort speak, 

To him in his deserted home? 
Whene'er he hears the tempest shriek. 

His thoughts will to the lost ones roam. 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD 

Written to Mrs. Annie M. 

How many flowers but ope to die; 
Like autumn leaves they scattered lie. 

Upon the sin cursed ground; 
Like sand upon the simoom's breath, 
The gale of life is full of death. 

And victims fall around. 

Thus many a child has but begun, 
The weary course of life to run, 

When it is called to die; 
Its pilgrimage with us must end, 
Its spirit must to God ascend. 

And dwell with Him on high. 



POEMS 



281 



And thus, dear one, thy boy hath past, 
Away from earth! in death's cold blast, 

And left thee sorrowing here; 
But thou wilt mourn for him in vain, 
He ne'er will smile on earth again — 

Then stay the falling tear. 

His soul has joined the infant band, 
Who ever near the Father stand, 

And sing His praises there; 
And when thy soul is called to go. 
Away from scenes of sin and woe, 

He'll meet you in the air. 

And you will ever with him be, 
Through boundless, vast eternity, 

Where sorrow's tear ne'er fell; 
Then smile beneath the chastening rod. 
And leave the sleeping child with God, 

Who doeth all things well. 



MY HOUR TO DIE 



There comes a time in every life. 
The end of labor, toil, and strife. 

An hour beyond our ken, 
When we shall hear the solemn 

call. 
Suggesting bier, and shroud, and 
pall, 
For all the sons of men. 

This earth is beautiful and fair. 
Its mountains cleave the ambient 

air. 
Its oceans grandly flow; 
Their waves, in ceaseless dash and 

roar. 
Break sullen on the rock bound 

shore. 
Capped 

snow. 



white as stainless 



We trace the river's line of blue. 
With changing beauties, strange 
and new. 
Up to its mountain birth. 



And standing by its spring fed 

source. 
Behold the sun, in radiance, force 
His streamers o'er the earth. 

The mountain pine, the oak, the 

ash, 
Wave in the morning breeze, and 

flash 
To heaven the new born light, 
While leaf, and plant, and bud, and 

flower. 
All sparkle in the morning hour. 
Gemmed with the tears of 

night. 

The breeze swept fields of grain 

below. 
With undulations, graceful, slow, 

Begin to rise and fall, 
While on the grassy knolls we see. 
The sleek, fat herds are roaming 
free. 
Released from byre and stall. 



282 



POEMS 



And breath of flowers arise and 

sail, 
On airy wings of scented gale, 
To kiss the fleecy clouds. 
That float along the azure sky. 
Like sloops or shallops sailing by 
With swelling sheets and 
shrouds, 

And breaking on the ravished ear, 
A thousand trilling songs we hear. 

From feathered warblers come, 
That swell in diapason grand. 
From grove, and hill, from wood 
and strand. 

And reaches heaven's dome. 

When every headland bathed in 

light, 
Flash back upon the raptured 
sight 
The glories of the sea. 
On such a bright and beauteous 

morn. 
With nature bathed in light new 
born, 
Let that hour come to me. 

As backward swings the golden 

gate, 

Where guarding angels watch and 

wait. 

May such a scene but end, 

That its transcendent beauties may 

Melt in the morn of endless day. 

And with its glories blend. 



UNWRITTEN HEROES 

That life is but a failure, 

That waits for some great deed, 
To show the world its willingness 

To succor those in need. 

Life is made up of little things. 
And not of mighty wholes; 

And if we would be helpful 
To needy human souls. 



We must take the little burdens up, 
Just as they come along. 

And speak our words of comfort, 
In sermon, prayer, or song. 

For one may need a sermon. 

Another but a song; 
While prayer, offered up in faith. 

May save some soul from wrong. 

If we would be a victor. 

Glad to wear a starry crown, 

The cross of duty must be borne 
Up toilsome hills and down. 

"Go ye into my vineyard;" 
'Tis the voice of duty calls: 

It may be there to prune, or dig. 
Or mend the broken walls. 

No matter what the duty be, 

'Tis our duty to obey; 
It is the Master bids us go, 

He will our toils repay. 

It may be to bear the heavy cross 
Mayhap some lighter load; 

No matter; let us falter not 
To walk in duty's road. 

Whatever is our earthly lot 
Must surely still be right, 

Although the way seem dark, and 
hedged, 
To our imperfect sight. 

It may be ours to always serve, 
And never to command; 

It may be ours to always give. 
Nor take the helping hand. 

But often in the humbler walks. 
The hero may be found; 

The lesser victories must be won, 
Before fame's trumpets sound. 

There sleep amid the silent dead, 
A thousand heroes grand, 

Whose victories will never grace 
The annals of the land. 



POEMS 



288 



WE MAKE OUR GREATEST 
SORROWS 

Man sure is born to sorrow's lot, 

In stately hall or lowly cot. 

None are exempt from grief and 

pain, 
But all are bound in misery's 

chain; 
The chance of birth, or fortune's 

smile. 
May serve this sorrow to beguile; 
But each must bear some galling 

load. 
While travelers on the earthly 

road. 

Yet all these sorrows are but small, 
That to the earthly pilgrims fall. 
When we compare them with some. 
That from our own misdeeds may 

come; 
Self love and pride becomes a 

lure. 
And wild ambition, slow but sure. 
O'er rides our good resolves, and 

we 
Are drifting on a storm tossed sea. 

When anger rages, reason dies. 
And blackest shadow round us lies; 
Then base ingratitude appears, 
To blast the peace of coming years; 
And fierce, licentious passions burn, 
That every code of morals spurn; 
While man, on these environs 

tossed. 
If left unaided, sure were lost. 

But Nature has a nobler plan — 
A better fate for suffering man — 
Her wondrous book she opens wide, 
And shows him blessings multi- 
plied; 
He reads and learns that no mis- 
takes. 
In all her wide domain she makes; 
While those who pattern her may 

be. 
From sorrow, grief and suffering 
free. 



Then Revelation Nature joins. 
And matchless plan of love it 

coins: 
It lifts the glorious cross and 

shows. 
The final end of human woes; 
It bids his sins and sorrows cease. 
And guides to home, to heaven, to 

peace. 
Oh rapturous love! that Christ 

should come. 
To call these suffering sinners 

home. 



TEACH ME 

Teach me to know the very way. 
In which my feet should go; 

Lead me, and let thy kind voice say. 
This is thy duty, this thy row. 

For reason often seems to doubt. 
Where instinct walks with surer 
tread. 
And all the lights that shine about. 
Show glimmering shadows that 
we dread. 

Just why it is that reasoning man. 
Made highest in the scale of life. 

Seems farthest from a stable plan. 
And deepest in unequal strife. 

Is something hid from mortal ken, 
A mystery unsolved below. 

Too deep for philosophic pen. 
And far too high for sage to 
know. 

The lower orders, instinct guides, 
Are found to never go astray; 

They reason not, and nothing hides. 
From them the one, the only way. 

The oriole builds her pendant nest. 
Through lapsing ages, just the 
same; 
And yet its fashion is the best. 
Nor can we prove her instinct 
lame. 



II 



284 



POEMS 



But man has an expanding power, 
A force that he may educate, 

By storing lessons hour by hour, 
And gathering wisdom, concen- 
trate. 

And yet he doubts, and halts, and 
fears. 
And wonders if the right be right. 
Uncertain as those doting seers. 
Who claim the gift of second 
sight. 

Is man the one mistake of all 
That nature gathered in her 
plan? 
Or was it Adam's primal fall. 
That marred the perfect sense 
in man? 

It matters not how much we doubt, 
Doubt changes not a single fact; 

And disbelief, however stout, 
Will not destroy one single act. 

Of all the great Creator planned, 
Nor swerve a purpose of His 
mind. 
Who gave to instinct, clearer 
scanned, 
A vision hid from reason blind. 

So feeling my own learning small, 
I ask some higher power to 
teach; 

Some hand to lift me when I fall, 
'Till I a surer knowledge reach. 



THEN SHALL WE KNOW 

Sometimes the path of duty leads 
O'er toilsome, dark and dreary 
roads; 
And oft our fainting heart so 
pleads, 
We may not bear such galling 
loads. 



'Tis human nature thus to shun. 
The toil and pain we dread to 
meet; 
We sigh and wish that we might 
run 
In smoother roads, with nimbler 
feet. 

But man was destined thus to 
strive. 

And bear the burden here below. 
Amid these crosses virtues thrive, 

And cups of blessings overflow. 

For paths of duty lead to strength, 
And sorrow's learnings make us 
wise. 
And we shall realize at length 
That by our failures we may 
rise. 

For when these crosses all are past. 
And we can use a clearer light, 

That comes to every soul at last. 
And gives a truer sense of sight. 

We then shall know that all was 
best. 
That all in tender love was 
given. 
To fit us for our final rest. 

And lead us up from earth to 
heaven. 

Oh, poor, blind eyes that will not 
see; 
Oh, faint, weak hearts that will 
not love. 
Unless our dormant senses be. 
By these afllictions forced to 
move. 

We shiver in the darkness here. 
And fear to try the rugged road. 

Until we grasp the hand so near. 
That lifts, and bears our heavy 
load. 

That hand will guide us in the way, 
And lead us to a lasting rest. 



POEMS 



286 



Where beams of the eternal day 
Will light our eyes and warm 
our breast. 

Then looking from these heights 

sublime, 

Backward along the way we trod, 

We'll solve the mysteries of time, 

And know the wondrous love of 

God. 



A CONTRAST 

In wealth of beautv stood two 
boys. 
Two heads with silken curl; 
Around them lay the numerous 
toys, 
That made their little world; 
Those toys that made their world 

as bright 
As glow the orbs of starry night. 

They stood together in their 
youth. 
Their cheeks aglow with 
health. 
Their minds were full of love 
and truth — 
More precious far than wealth; 
That truth which through all 

nature lies. 
And, crushed or wounded, never 
dies. 

The boy, the youth, must on- 
ward move. 
Life brooks no standing still; 
Its fierce alembic soon will 
prove 
The metal of their will; 
For fierce alembic, heavy cross. 
They prove our faith, or find our 
dross. 

Again the same two forms 
appear: 
They are not boys, but men, 
Whose stalwart limbs, and 
voices clear. 
Recall the now, and then; 



That retrospective glance that 

shows 
How swift the onward current 

flows. 

But here their path diverges 
wide. 
And carries them apart. 
For one has sought the temp- 
ter's side. 
And listened to his art; 
Whose art still forms the down- 
ward path. 
Away from hope, and ends in 
wrath. 

The other seeks the narrower 
way. 
Where wisdom loves to dwell, 
And toils, and strives, as day 
by day 
He does each duty well; 
Those duties finished brings re- 
pose, 
At each returning evening's close. 

Again we see them at life's 
close — 
The one all sin, and shame, 
and crime. 
Environed by a thousand foes. 
And bankrupted of time, 
A soul that shrieks "Forever lost," 
And seeks the dark plutonian coast. 

The other full of hope and joy. 

Beloved of God and man, 
Serenely smiles — as when a 
boy — 
And yields to nature's plan. 
While sinking in that calm repose. 
That but the faithful righteous 
knows. 

Thus every boy, and youth, and 
man. 
Is called to stand and choose; 
To work, and toil, and strive, and 
plan. 
Nor can some choice refuse; 



286 



POEMS 



May wisdom's torch illume the 

way, 
That leads to everlasting day. 

For earth enough of failure hath, 

It needs the brave and true. 
To tread the much neglected 
path, 
Where walk the faithful few — 
That few who bear the heavy cross. 
And, for its sake, "count all things 
loss." 



WHAT THE FARMER DOES 

The farmer does the hardest work. 
He labors like a Turk; 

He plows and sows, he grubs and 
mows 
And does the drudging work. 

Before the hour of four has struck, 

He rises from his bed; 
And up to sultry hour of noon. 

He goes, with weary tread. 

For dinner he has scarcely time. 
But goes to slop the pigs. 

Or train a grapevine o'er the porch. 
Or trim the "Limber Twigs." 

Then hastens back into the field. 

And goes, till set of sun 
Reminds him that the day is gone, 

And chores must be done. 

And here a cow has broke the 
fence. 

And there a colt has strayed. 
Until, with this mishap, and that, 

He is well nigh dismayed. 

He feeds the horses, pails the cows. 
And litters down the sheep; 

Then bolts his supper in a rush. 
And tumbles in to sleep. 

The cholera gets among his hogs. 
Frost nips his tender corn. 

And out of five young blooded colts, 
Three die as soon as born. 



The rats eat up the little chicks, 
The "taters" turn out small, 

While apples that looked well in 
spring. 
Are scabby in the fall. 

The spring proved far too wet for 
grain. 

The summer far too dry. 
So when he views his scanty store. 

He heaves a hopeless sigh. 

The butchers bought his heifers 
fat. 

And drove them from his pen. 
Paid him from one cent up to two, 

Then sold him steak at ten. 

He sold his oats for eighteen 
cents — 

And then gave extra weight; 
His corn went off at twenty-five — 

Good wheat at forty-eight. 

And when he came to sell his pork, 
Three thirty was the price. 

Still he paid eighteen cents for 
ham — 
Thirteen for bacon nice. 

The grain man weighs what e'er 
he sells, 
The store man what he buys — 
The one weighs heavy, t'other 
light- 
Both gall him with their lies. 

No wonder that his back is bent. 
Or that his locks grow thin; 

No wonder that he often fails 
A competence to win. 

'Tis time for him to stop and ask, 
Why is the thlsly thus? 

"And must I ever thus be robbed 
By every thieving cuss?" 

And when he gets his dander up, 
He'll go and join a Grange, 



POEMS 



287 



And thus united efforts will. 
Work out a happy change, 

For when the farmer makes the 
laws. 
As well as earns the bread. 
Then will he get the wealth he 
makes, 
And "Trusts" will all be dead. 



LIFE'S PURPOSE 

Every life must have a purpose. 
Some deep plan, both strong and 
true, 

Hidden low beneath the surface. 
Kept from others' ken and view. 

It must not be selfish, scheming, 
Planning ever for the one. 

But with hopes for others gleaming. 
Find its joy in duties done. 

Those who love their fellow mortals 
Show a touch of love divine — 

Treading near the sacred portals. 
Of the higher life sublime. 

God has made man's duties 
pleasant. 
When life's purpose seeks the 
right; 
Trouble comes to king and peasant, 
When such purpose sinks from 
sight. 

In this world, where much of 
sorrow. 
Shades the fairest path in life. 
Where our clearest skies must 
borrow 
Shadows from the clouds of 
strife, 

Purpose must be true and lasting, 
Life must have a stern resolve, 

Every weight behind us casting, 
We must move, while worlds 
revolve. 



Here, a child in sorrow crying — 
There, a strong man in despair — 

Yonder, age, in weakness, trying 
Life's disasters to repair. 

Soothe the child, to cease its 
sorrow. 
Teach the strong his cross to 
bear. 
Give to age, whose step is failing, 
Tender pity, help and care. 

In these things lies earth's enjoy- 
ment. 

Purpose gives to life its plan. 
Teaching us our best enjoyment. 

Is to aid our fellow man. 

Those who live for self are 
narrow — 
Those who love and toil, 
expand — 
Fields that lie forever fallow. 
Soon are known as useless land. 

Life, without a purpose guided, 
Soon becomes a stagnant pool; 

Sorrows, loves, toils, joys divided, 
Make of it a "Golden rule." 



WHAT OF PROGRESS? 

Does the world grow better? 

Or does it grow worse? 
Have we loosened a fetter? 

Or lifted a curse? 

Are we going up higher? 

Or losing our pace? 
Have we kindled a fire 

That's warming a race? 

Have our lives grown truer, 
Or braver, or grander? 

Do we live ever sure 

That to no vice we pander? 

Do we bow down to party, 

And smile at a sin? 
Can we laugh out right hearty 

When right seems to win? 



288 



POEMS 



Do we stand with arms folded 

When poverty cries? 
Or shrink when is moulded 

The venom of lies? 

Are we making a struggle 
To right what is wrong? 

Or cringe we, and smuggle 
The loot with the strong? 

To sail with the current 

Is easy to do; 
But to stem the fierce torrent 

Tries boatswain and crew. 

To stand on the mountain, 
And drink in the breeze; 

Or bathe in the fountain 
Of indolent ease, 

Takes naught of exertion, 
Takes nothing of zeal, 

'Tis the joy of inertion 
The careless may feel. 

But to stand in the valley 
When darkness has come. 

When the storm forces rally. 
And white lips are dumb. 

Takes courage the strongest. 
Takes manhood the best; 

Takes patience the longest. 
And zeal without rest. 

But the world does grow better, 

It never grows worse; 
Here we unloose a fetter — 

There banish a curse. 

And thus rise by gradations. 

Until we shall stand, 
A cordon of nations 

In brotherhood grand. 



FAITH AND WORKS 

What the world needs is good 
honest workers, 
With purpose to labor and do. 



With a heart all aglow for true 
manhood, 
And a zeal that is honest and 
true. 

'Tis useless to say to the needy, 
"Be warmed, be clothed, or be 
fed," 
If the hand be not lifted to help 
them, 
'Twere better the words were 
not said. 

When we come to the hovel where 
squalor 
Sits warming itself by the hearth. 
Ere you offer the joys of your 
heaven. 
Let them taste of the comforts 
of earth. 

When you come to the wounded in 
spirit, 
If poverty sits by their side, 
Relieve their sore needs with your 
money. 
Then tell them "The Lord will 
provide." 

If you find both the soul and the 
body. 
Sunk low in the evils of sin. 
First win them by acts of true 
kindness. 
Then tell them "The Lord will 
come in." 

Go into the highways and hedges. 
And rescue the wretch from his 
doom. 
And then you can point him to 
Jesus, 
And whisper "And still there is 
room." 

'Tis useless to preach of repentance, 
Or faith that is saving, or zeal. 
If our faith bears no fruit in an 
action. 
That shows that for others we 
feel. 



POEMS 



289 



'Tis better the loaves and the 
fishes, 
Be found where the multitudes 
sit, 
And then when the fragments are 
gathered. 
The words of true wisdom will 
fit. 

For true faith and works go to- 
gether, 
'Tis these makes religion so 
grand. 
And those whose faith is the 
strongest. 
Are willing to help with their 
hand. 



THOSE PROMISES 

It is the time of good resolves. 
And swearing off from evil deeds. 

And as successive years revolve. 
Still comes the same old wants 
and needs. 

One swears that he will swear no 
more; 
Another bids good-bye to smoke. 
Regardless that so oft before. 
Both have performed the same 
old joke. 

The honest purpose, most sincere. 
That comes at merry Christmas 
time. 
To lift the heart so very near 
The heights of Christian love 
sublime. 

Is not without its power for good, 
Without its influence on the life. 
And if these good resolves but 
stood. 
Our glaring faults would be less 
rife. 

And if there be but few who 
stand. 
Firm in these promises to mend, 



These few may form a little band, 
To help some hopeless, erring 
friend. 

'Tis better to have vowed these 
vows — 
Though destined to ephemeral 
life — 
And though no victories crown our 
brows, 
'Tis better we have felt the 
strife. 

For every effort we have made. 
Has left us stronger for the 
right. 
And every altar where we prayed. 
Has shown us visions clear and 
bright; 

Visions of better things to come. 
Of grander lives and nobler aims. 

That culminate in happier homes, 
And cluster round more honored 
names. 

For if there be no wish to mend. 
And no desire to cease from sin. 

Where will the old life have an 
end. 
And where the better life begin? 

Then oft as we these vows may 
break. 
Let us repeat them o'er and o'er. 
And every holy Christmas make 
Them new, till they are broke no 
more. 



THE BLACKBIRDS 

Do you notice the gathering black- 
birds? 
Do you list' to the songs that 
they sing? 
They will soon leave our groves for 
the sun-land. 
We shall see them no more until 
spring. 



290 



POEMS 



Is the song they are singing of 
gladness? 
Or is it a wailing of woe? 
Do they trill us a measure of 
sadness, 
As they leave us far southward 
to go? 

Do they know that before their re- 
turning 
Some of us will sleep under the 
sod? 
That these souls with ambition now 
burning. 
Will be called to the city of God? 



Whom love nor affection could 
save, 
And, perched on the trees deeply 
shaded. 
Sing dirges above their low 
grave? 

And we, who are left, when we 
listen 
To the rush of the swift cleaving 
wing, 
And see, on their back, the gloss 
glisten. 
In the calm, tepid warmth of 
the spring. 



The flowers have already departed. 
And the bleak, chilling breezes 
will come, 
And the feeble, the sick, the faint- 
hearted. 
Will seek the repose of the 
tomb. 



Will rejoice that the One who has 
guided 
The bird in its wonderful flight, 
Will never forsake us, provided 
We love Him, and serve Him 
aright. 



And the white snows of winter will 

gather, 

Above their low bed in a mound. 

Sifting down from the home of the 

Father, 

With scarcely an audible sound. 

And the pure, white, impalpable 
cover, 
Will be as a token to show 
That Jesus, the friend and the lover. 
Has washed their sins whiter 
than snow. 

And when the dark winter has 
yielded. 
His power to the mildness of 
spring. 
And the blackbirds, the warmer 
clime shielded, 
Return to our woodlands to 
sing. 

Will they miss the dear ones who 
have faded, 



IMMORTALITY 

And are we parted from our dead? 
Are our adieus forever said? 

And shall we meet no more? 
Did God intend the grave to be 
The end of all we feel and see? 

Is there no fairer shore? 

When all the toils of life are done. 
Its battles fought, its victories won, 

There surely is some prize. 
Some recompense for those who go 
In sadness all their years below. 

Some mansions in the skies. 

For if there were no starry crown. 
Who could endure misfortune's 
frown. 
Or meet the tide of woes 
That surge round our pathway 

here, 
From our first opening infant years. 
To life's reluctant close? 



POEMS 



291 



'Tis graven on our inmost soul. 
The tomb is not our lasting goal, 

Nor death our last repose. 
And that at last these souls shall 

rise. 
Beyond the earth and vaulted skies, 

Even as our Lord arose. 

For if there were no after life, 
No rest beyond these years of strife. 

Why this desire to live? 
No plant would ever seek for light. 
When prisoned in the cellar's night. 

Had heaven no light to give. 

Nor can we think that God would 

give. 
This innate, strong desire to live. 

Implanted in the breast. 
Had He no means to satisfy 
Our wish for immortality. 

Our strong desire for rest. 

And nature's varied changes show — 
As years revolve and seasons go, 

That life does follow death; 
That summer scatters winter's 

gloom. 
And calls dead flowers from the 
tomb, 
Prepared by Autumn's breath. 

Then revelation comes to prove 
That God's unbounded, matchless 
love 
Has made immortal man, 
To live when suns and worlds are 

dead. 
United with his living Head, 
Part of an endless plan. 

In which all living souls shall meet 
In rapture at the Savior's feet. 

When time shall be no more; 
There friend shall meet with absent 

friend. 
And saints and angels ever blend. 

Together on that shore. 



ON THE DEATH OF WILLIS 
HASTY 

(Co. A, 55th 111. Veteran Vol. 
In., who was killed at Atlanta, 
July 28, 1864.) 

Let abler minds grasp richer 
themes. 

And other heroes praise; 
A private soldier's virtues gleam, 

In these, my humbler lays. 

A loving mother's only son. 
His country's call he hears. 

He girds that country's armor on, 
And leaves her bathed in tears. 

I hear Columbia's bleeding cry, 
Foul traitors seek her life, 

I cannot see my country die, 
I'll haste to Join the strife. 

The glory of our State's at stake. 
And through the war clouds rift, 

I'll follow for her honor's sake. 
The glorious "Fifty-Fifth." 

He heard her charging squadrons 
shout. 
As roars the boisterous sea; 
And saw his comrades' blood 
poured out. 
Where rolls the Tennessee. 

He saw that starry banner bright, 
With victory's constant gleam, 

As onward rolled the din of fight, 
Down Mississippi's stream. 

At Corinth, and at Vicksburg, too, 

And at Arkansas Post, 
Each regiment clothed in federal 
blue, 

Had proved itself an host. 

Three years have passed, of dead- 
ly strife. 
Again he hears that call, 
Come, veterans, save your coun- 
try's life, 
Or with her honor fall. 



292 



POEMS 



Again he springs to aid her cause, 
And set her captives free; 

To vindicate her broken laws, 
And save her liberty. 

Atlanta's deadly strife came on. 
We anxious held our breath; 

At length the mournful tidings 
came. 
Poor Hasty's low in death. 

But, father, mother, sisters dear. 
While weeping o'er his grave. 

This consolation still will cheer. 
He died, as dies the brave. 

I mourn with you, a valued friend. 
With yours, my tears shall flow. 
With yours my sorrowing heart 
will bend. 
Beneath this crushing blow. 

Ah! traitors to your country's 
power, 
God's vengeance never dies; 
And Hasty's blood, each coming 
hour. 
For double vengeance cries. 

Oh! rest thee, 'neath thy mountain 
grave, 
Our own dear soldier boy, 
Thou'rt numbered with the count- 
less brave. 
Their country's pride and joy. 



'Tis well if in our inmost heart. 

We still retain a strong desire, 
To follow out that better part, 
'Twas taught us by a sainted sir^ 

'Tis meet that we should cherish 
long. 
Those counsels from a brother's 
heart; 
'Tis well if yet a sister's song, 
Some lingering rays of hope im- 
part. 

Those scenes around the family 
hearth. 
On which the fancy loves to 
dwell. 
While I retain one grasp of earth — 
I will not, can not, say farewell. 

As lovely scenes, as sunny skies. 
Appear in rich profusion 
hurled — 
I feel the inspiration rise — 

I'd call my home the wide wide 
world. 

Where e'er the crushed and bruised 
in heart. 
In bitter anguish madly roam — 
Where e'er the tears of sorrow 
start — 
'Tis there! 'tis there I'd be at 
home. 



COSMOPOLITE 

'Tis well to love the dear old spot. 
O'er which our infant feet have 
strayed; 
'Tis well if we forget it not, 
The altar where our mother 
prayed. 

'Tis well to cling with fond de- 
light. 
To every place our childhood 
knew — 
To cherish each remembered sight 
That on our opening vision grew. 



I'd call them mine — those moun- 
tains grand — 
Those rivers sweeping to the 
main — 
The frigid or the torrid land — 
The pampas, or the arid plain. 

Where e'er the human form divine. 
Retains its Maker's image fair. 

In northern or in sauthern clime, 
I'd feel I was a native there. 

Caucasian or Mongolian race — 
From India or from Asia 
sprung — 



POEMS 



298 



Adorned with white or olive face, 
I feel you speak my native 
tongue. 

Ye dusky dwellers by the Nile, 
In you a brother's face I scan — 

Or fierce Malasian, low and vile — 
Or better still, American. 

My Father is your Father too. 
He formed us by His mighty 
hand; 
Oh! then, is not this saying true? 
Our home is all our Father's 
land. 

And while we love the sacred place, 

Where knowledge first her page 

unfurled. 

We scorn the formal ties of space. 

And claim our home the wide, 

wide world. 



WRITTEN TO A WIFE DUR- 
ING HER ABSENCE 

Oh! that thou wert near, love. 
Tonight, that thou might see. 

The wealth of holy feeling, love. 
This heart contains for thee. 

And Oh! that thou might gaze, 
dear. 

In these speaking eyes of mine; 
And Oh! that I might revel, dear. 

In the hazel depths of thine. 

The cherished name of wife, love, 

Is dearer to me now, 
Than when before the altar, love. 

We spoke the lasting vow. 

A holier radiance beams, dear, 
Adown the path of time, 

A sweeter chord of love, dear. 
Rings out its pleasing chime. 

Affection does not fade, love. 

Though oceans roll between; 
Thy image in my heart, love, 
Will keep its memory green. 



Though leagues of vale and moun- 
tain, love. 

E'en now does intervene. 
My memory spurns it all, love. 

What e'er may rise between. 

My love is like the eagle, love. 
That soars toward the sun. 

And bathes his pinions there, 
love, 
Nor stoops on earth to run. 

It soars o'er field and flood, love. 
Nor stops for mountain high. 

But bathes its pinions there, love, 
Within thy kindling eye. 

But distance is so Irksome, love. 
It closes from our view. 

The thousand little actions, love. 
That tell the heart is true. 

But haste those days of absence, 
love, 

Let them pass swiftly by, 
I'll clasp thee in my arms, love. 

And feel that thou art nigh. 



MY ANGEL SISTER 

I have an angel sister, 

Though few there be that know, 
That I have an angel sister. 

To whom I'd love to go. 

But well do I remember her, 

And oft I have to cry. 
To think that in her early years. 

The lovely girl must die. 

Ah! she was very beautiful. 
And beauty's seldom given, 

To those who long must dwell on 
earth, 
For beauty's made for heaven. 

Oft when my temper's ruffled. 

Her voice I seem to hear, 

As she bids me to be dutiful, 

And I'll have naught to fear. 



294 



POEMS 



"Be kind unto your mother," 
"And lighten this sad stroke," 

"And cheer your sorrowing father," 
Were the last words that she 
spoke. 

My sister was not made for earth — 
So I have heard them say — 

But my heart is very desolate. 
Since she has gone away. 

I know that she is happy now. 
Nor do I wish to bring, 

Her lovely spirit back to earth. 
To dwell 'mid suffering. 



THE GAL WITH THE ROCKS 

Some may sigh for love in a cot- 
tage. 
Some for the gal with the blue 
in her socks, 
But I long for the maid with the 
donyxs, 
I yearn for the gal with the 
rocks. 

Some dote upon beauty — 'tis fading, 
'Tis not so substantial as blocks; 

So I'll cling to my own pet idea. 
And go for the gal with the 
rocks. 

It matters me not if she's homely — 
Her face even scarred with 
smallpox — 
Such a trifle would trouble me 
little. 
Just so she possesses the rocks. 

One goes wild over dark raven 
tresses, 
And women dressed out in silk 
frocks, 
But I'll take one — yes, even red- 
headed — 
If she only has plenty of rocks. 

My chum gave his heart to a 
charmer. 
Who was famous for roasting 
woodcocks; 



But I'll hire for my cook a green 
Bridget, 
If my charmer will furnish the 
rocks. 

Love for music with me is a pas- 
sion, 
Discord sends my nerves to the 
shocks. 
But my siren may sing like a tree- 
toad. 
If she only comes down with the 
rocks. 

I care not if she is a virago, 

And gambles in shares and in 
stocks. 
She may "bull it," or "bear it," or 
neither. 
If she brings to my pocket the 
rocks. 

Her pa may be grim as a blue- 
beard, 
And as grasping as forty Shy- 
locks, 
I'll lovingly call him dear father 
If he'll will to my lady his rocks. 

I could dance with her mother, 
though ugly 
As any wench ever sold on the 
blocks, 
And smilingly swear 'twas delight- 
ful, 
If her daughter is lousy with 
rocks. 

I would visit her country rela- 
tions — 
Go wild o'er their herds and 
their flocks — 
Or do anything else in creation, 
For the sake of the gal with the 
rocks. 

And finally: Though the old satan 
Himself, should attempt to throw 
blocks. 
In the way of the game I was play- 
ing, 
I'd marry the gal with the rocks. 



Humorous 

A Disabled Proboscis 

The editor has a nose. Most editors do have a nose when they 
first enter on their wild career, but some of them get their 's knocked 
off. On several occasions some one has called at our office and offered 
to knock off our nose for nothing. We always felt obliged to decline 
such offers; they were entirely too generous to suit us. Now we are 
almost sorry that we did not permit some of them to carry out their 
disinterested intentions. Our nose has gone back on us. We have 
always considered that it was an ornament to a face that had none too 
many to make it appear to good advantage. 

This nose began to put on airs; it swelled up with pride — or 
something else — and the trouble was it only swelled on one side; but 
it kept on in spite of our protest, and without our consent, until it 
spread pretty generally over the right side of our face. It did not 
add to our comfort ; it did not enhance our beauty ; it did not increase 
our income by a single kopek. After repeated expostulations with 
him — yes, it is proper to use the masculine pronoun in such a case — we 
took him to a doctor. The man of pills, potions and patients looked 
wisely at the nose, and comically at us, and asked us what the matter 
was. We told him that we could not answer so profound a question; 
all we knew was that we had lived in peace and comity with that nose 
for 56 years, and in all that time it had not served us such a trick; 
we had learned to put confidence in the best nose we ever had, and 
we trusted it implicitly. We forgot that a nose was but human after 
all, and nothing human should ever be trusted. The doctor said he 
guessed so too. Then he seated us — he was a polite little cuss — and 
he got two rubber globes joined together by a ligature — a sort of 
Siamese twins arrangement — and he tried to fire it off in front of us, 
but it proved a fizzel; it was not loaded, and we consider our escape 
one of the most remarkable on record. Then he picked another thing 
that looked to us like an infringement of the patent that covered the 
other one, and it did go off. The first charge hit us squarely in the 
mouth, which we — supposing in our innocence that he was aiming at 
our nose — had neglected to close, and it had a most villainous taste, 
equaling the smell of the Chicago river, and it stayed by us like a 
poor relation on a visit. The next charge took effect in our off ear, and 

295 



296 HUMOROUS 



we now hear lop-sided. The next shot took us in the west eye, which 
had failed to profit by the experience of our mouth and was wide 
open, apparently making an effort to see what the man of physic was 
aiming at; that eye went out of business at once, but as the assets 
and liabilities are reported equal — a peculiarity that we have noticed 
in all reports of business failures — it may resume. We were just con- 
cluding that the next shot would hit us in the nose — our reasoning 
being that now he had filled up plaguey near all the other cavities on 
our anatomy, he would be compelled to hit the nose — but he didn't. He 
laid down the machine, remarking as he did so, that the operation had 
been so successfully accomplished that he thought nothing else in the 
way of treatment would be necessary. We told him that he had 
happily and neatly expressed the very thought that had evolved in 
the gray matter of our own massive brain, at which compliment the 
doctor arrayed his face in a loud and rather handsome smile. After a 
moment of deep contemplation the doctor said a nose that had proved 
so deceptive in the past — especially as it was old enough to know 
better — could not be trusted in the future, and he got down the con- 
tents of two medicine cases, mixed them in equal parts, told us to go 
home, secure a chicken feather and paint our nose. We did so. It is 
now the color of a new saddle. We are living in hope that time may 
fade the brightness of this saffron hue, for we detest a prominent nose. 
These facts are unvarnished — but our nose is not. We hope that 
we have not put the public in possession of the modus operandi by 
which doctors repair noses, for we have no desire to injure their busi- 
ness. But the course of treatment is so simple, so pleasant, so effec- 
tive, so sure of success, that someone may be tempted to try it for 
themselves. 

Sad 

We learn that Bro. Hull, of the "Wyoming Herald" is in a sad 
case. It seemes that he has chased around after delinquent sub- 
scribers until he seems a "little off." He went to an old granger 
and bought an old, dejected looking plug of a horse, for $21; — P. S. 
Of course he gave his notes. He then got a controlling interest in the 
two front wheels of a farm wagon, and proceeded to fix up a machine 
that he called a road cart. He got 40 feet of half inch rope to fasten 
the plug with, and the poor old cripple — we say cripple because 
he is hip shot, has a spavin, is knock kneed, ring boned, is hoof bound, 
has a bad fistula, is a cribber, and is opposed to pulling anything, 
except hay out of a rack — got tangled in the rope and was about to 
resign, after the manner of Roscoe Conkling, when the rope was cut 
and he set at liberty. 



HUMOROUS 297 



We further learn that Bro. Hull gets this antiquated specimen of 
shave tail burlesque on the equine race — we forgot to say before that 
he had a shave tail — out and speeds him on the principal streets of 
Wyoming. 

He has christened this superb steed ''Sardanapalus" probably 
from the fact that equine experts suppose that he was a young work 
horse about the time that worthy flourished on the earth, and he 
seizes the reins with all the pride of a Budd Doble, flourishes the butt 
end of a twenty-five cent whip, and calls out, "Hi there! Hi there! 
Hi there 'Sardana,' steady my boy, steady now." Thus encouraged 
the poor old crow-bait makes a violent stagger to raise a trot, but 
gives it up in disgust when he notices that he never overtakes a snail 
but invariably meets it. 

It is said that Hull's friends are loath to tell him the true state 
of the case, thinking it best to humor such a mild and harmless form 
of lunacy, and we would not refer to the case, were it not for the 
fact we have an eccentric friend who is writing a book to prove that 
the horse is immortal ; and as history does not refer to the coltship of 
this grass nipping quadruped, and he seems in fair way to never die — 
as we judge from the fact that there is not room in his anatomy for 
another ailment, and the present ones do not lay his bones at rest — we 
thought our friend might wish to refer to him as an unanswerable 
argument in favor of his pet theory. 

It is to be hoped that Bro. Hull's malady is not incurable, and that 
Bro. Chandler may yet prevail on him to trade his steed for a yellow 
feist, so devoid of respectability that the assessor won't notice him. 

The Horse 

The horse is a noble animal. We would like to say that the horse 
is the noblest of all animals except man. But if we did so it is more 
than an even chance that some one would arise and whack us over 
the cranium with the club of his opinion, and set up a counter claim 
for the lion, the elephant, the ox or the dog. Ever since the Elmore 
doctor took a fancy to Doctor Royce's yaller hound, we have thought 
that no animal has been made — or, indeed, can be made — so ugly, so 
depraved, so senseless, but some one would become attached to it. We 
do not wish to be understood as daring to limit the creative powers 
of God; far be it from us to say that He cannot send into existence 
a worse looking beast than Dock's hound; but we wish to state — and 
we weigh well our words — we are certain that He never has. But to 
return; the horse is a noble animal; and Dr. Gove, of Farmington, 
has one of the most noble and sagacious horses that can be found out- 
side of an Equine Paradox. This animal seems to have descended, by 



298 HUMOROUS 



ordinary generation, from that illustrious breed of steeds of which it 
is said: "He smelleth the battle afar." "He paweth in the valley, 
and scorneth at fear." The doctor has driven this horse night and 
day for a long time ; he passed through the late political campaign 
without a shy; he saw the big meteor pass without a tremor; he had 
met John Deyo face to face, and never winced ; he had witnessed the 
wild contortions of John Holcomb when pleading at the bar of offended 
justice, for the rights and priviliges of the man who had traded a 
spavined mule for a ringboned tackey, and never moved an ear ; he had 
heard Whistle Cramer in his grand and terrible solo, when he was 
practicing to furnish the music for Neal Brown, when he lost a bet 
on the election, and no signs of fear appeared ; he met Sam Jack in 
the street the day after he became convinced that Cleveland and old 
Nick were elected, and yet he did not run away. In fact, that horse 
did not seem to know how to shy, and the only times he ever was 
known to run, was when the doctor goaded him into a buffalo gallop 
in order to reach the house of some patient, lest he might recover 
before he had authority to enter a fee on his books. But a few days 
ago, while the doctor was making a professional call at the residence 
of James Torrens, his horse broke an inch tie-rope, and made a wild 
and reckless dash for home and safety. This episode astonished the 
doctor; it astonished every citizen of the town. Every one went to 
work to discover the cause, for all felt that it could have been no un- 
common sight that flustered the nerves of that staid and sober beast. 
At first it was rumored that Jim Davidson, he who in years gone by, 
edited the Fulton Democrat, had returned to the county and the horse 
had caught sight of him ; but this turned out fallacious. Numberless 
rumors were started and hunted down, but still the mystery deepened 
and darkened. At last Mr. Torrens noticed part of a newspaper on 
the walk, and turning it over with his cane, he discovered that it 
was part of the lately enlarged Farmington Bugle, containing a double 
column wood cut of Capt. John Smith, Auctioneer and Justice of the 
Peace. By the criminal negligence of some person — as yet unknown — 
this scrap of paper was permitted to get loose, and wafted by a gentle 
zephyr, it turned over on the walk, near where the horse was tied; 
it was a sight so much more appalling than anything he had ever 
set eyes on, that he made up his mind the only safety was flight, in- 
stantaneous and inglorious flight; and he went, and stood not on the 
order of his going. We will state in justification of Capt. Smith, whose 
parents were respectable people, that the cut does not flatter him ; 
in fact there be those who claim that he is a right smart chance better 
looking than the picture, and we learn that when the picture first 
appeared in the Bugle, a debating society spent two weeks discussing 



HUMOROUS 299 



the question: "Resolved, that the double column cut in the Bugle is a 
Chinese Joss;" and they were astonished when their corresponding 
secretary wrote to S. P. Wood, editor of the now dangerous sheet, and 
learned that it was the likeness of Capt. John S. Smith. Out of respect 
for the cause represented by Parnell and compatriots, we wish to state 
that Capt. Smith is not an Irishman. And after a careful survey of 
the case, we are prepared to reiterate our opening statement, that the 
horse is a noble animal. 

Notice 

To those whom it may concern. We hereby warn all weak minded 
persons, imbeciles, beciles, lunatics, fools, idots, spider-legged-dudes, 
and those destitute of brains to refrain from reading this paper, as it 
is designed for people of ordinary intelligence, and, we are informed 
by a communication now in our possession, has had a bad effect 
on one such case lately. We will not be responsible for any bad effect 
it may produce in such cases after the publication of this notice, which 
is for the express purpose of putting such persons on their guard, 
and preventing them from partaking of mental food that nature has 
evidently denied them the power of assimilating to their unhappy men- 
tal condition. 

The Bismark Wild Animals 

It is reported that E. F. Taylor has met the wild animal of Bis- 
mark. It was a dark Sunday night, and Ed had been over in the 
southeast corner of Salem township, courting the sweetest little piece 
of calico in seven states, and he took no note of time, but the girl's 
father did, and at 2 a. m. Monday he appeared in the room door armed 
with a pick handle, and said "young man, get," and Ed struck a can- 
ter for Bismark. Just as he reached the bridge west of Tom Christy's 
this animal appeared in front of him with a great roar. Ed made 
a lunge at the brute and said, "I fear you not, get or die, for I am 
fleeing from a worse terror than you, and I'd face the devil, but not 
that old man." The animal saw that he was a desperate man, so it 
tucked its long tail between its hind legs and sneaked off, while Ed 
did not lose a jump, and was soon safe in bed. 

Some of the boys from here were returning from Farmington last 
Saturday night, and when near the home of Gus Dalton, in Bismark, 
the unearthly yell of the Bismark wild animal smote on their affrighted 
ears. When they reached Lothy Taggart's it appeared to them, and 
fear seized their mortal frames, each particular hair on their heads 
arose erect as the quills on the porcupine, and their eyes "bugged 
out" until you could have knocked them off with a club. This wild 



300 HUMOROUS 



beast is 135 feet in length, is 11 feet wide, has a massive head, a long, 
shaggy mane, pendulous ears, a prehensile tail which it wraps around 
the trunks of giant tress and uproots them with apparent ease, has 
a long liver colored tongue that drops saliva at every jump, and great 
red, firey eyes such as Victor Hugo has given to "Hans of Iceland," 
and teeth that protrude and curl after the style of the wild hog, only 
that they measure 7 feet in length and are 2V2 feet in diameter at the 
base. It is small wonder that the boys thought it "Had 'em," or that 
they went, nor stood on the order of their going, nor are they to be 
blamed even if they did push on the lines, for that Bismark "What Is 
It" is a holy terror. 

An Imaginary Congregation 

Saturday night a continuous, slow, drizzling rain fell. Sunday 
morning dawned with the sky entirely obscured by dull, somber clouds 
that gave promise of more rain. It was not one of those days calcu- 
lated to induce one to go to church, but rather to stay close to the 
house. The usual sessions of Sunday School were held. Rev. Duncan 
preached at the regular hour in the Presbyterian church, but whether 
the choir were all present or not we do not know ; nor do we know 
whether the attendance was large or small ; nor yet what the text was, 
or what the plan of the sermon. The reason is that we were not there. 
Of course we should have been. But then we should have been good 
looking, rich, amiable, kind and obliging, but — we ain't. There was no 
evening service in Bro. Duncan's church. Rev. J. H. Boggess was 
announced to preach at the M. E. church. We went. So did several 
others. There was Mart, Jordan, singing in the choir, like a lark; 
there was "Pet" Thomson, slyly chewing a quid of navy behind the 
stove and listening with eyes and ears ; there was Henry Soldwell, sit- 
ting under the glare of the chandelier, looking as contented as if he 
were about to begin a game of croquet ; there was Perry Taylor, looking 
as if he thought a good set or two could be formed from the crowd ; 
there was Sam Conver, sleek, fat, contented looking ; there was Boaz 
Bevans, looking as if he would dearly love to know how many in the 
congregation were in favor of A. J. Bell for governor of Illinois ; there 
was Smith Rhea, calm, sedate, thoughtful looking, as if he felt in 
accord with civil service reform ; there was John Hunter, looking over 
toward the choir as if he were speculating on what kind of a hand 
J. A. Hensley might hold in a little game in a freight car; there was 
Charlie Bird, enticed from his block and cleaver, and there was D. M. 
Carter, sitting well up toward the amen corner, stroking his long, 
black beard, and looking around at the other worthies we have men- 
tioned, as if he would give a quarter for the privilege of saying: 
"What are you fellows doing here, anyway?" The house was well 



HUMOROUS 801 



filled. The choir was Mart. Jordan, L. A. Lawrence, J. A. Hensley, 
Mrs. J, A. Hensley, Miss Rogers, and Miss Westfall, with Miss Jaquith 
at the organ. The prayer was unique and uncommon; the preacher 
seemed to be talking to some male friend ; he told the Lord several 
important things. But all the time we had the uncomfortable feeling 
that the speaker was not just in his element, a little as though he were 
not so well acquainted with the Lord as he might be. But the prayer 
had one "rare, strange virtue" — it was short. He read a portion of 
the sermon on the mount. The text was Proverbs nineteenth chapter 
and first clause of the second verse: "That the soul be without knowl- 
edge, it is not good," and the twelfth chapter of the gospel by John, the 
last clause of the twenty-first verse: "Sir, we would see Jesus." He 
stated that learning and religion went hand in hand ; that Paul did not 
go to the ignorant tribes of heathen lands, but went to Athens, to 
Philippi to Rome ; he asserted that all the best talent, intellect, mind, 
of every age, had the same desire to see Jesus. He claimed that 
wherever ignorance ruled, religion dwindled, and priests swayed multi- 
tudes. The discourse was a masterly effort. As in his sermon two 
weeks ago, he ranged the whole fields of poetry, philosophy, litera- 
ture, scripture, history, romance, geology, astronomy, in fact, every- 
thing. He carried his audience with him. No matter what you may 
say or think of him otherwise, as pulpit orator you concede that he 
takes a high position. He repeats nothing. Every sentence is new. It 
has an idea. It is expressed in the best manner. It is in the best 
language. Many of the passages in this sermon were grandly beautiful 
and inspiring. There may be those who would not like to hear him, 
but they would be those incapable of appreciating masterly eloquence. 

Death of Toodles 

Toodles is dead. He has "Passed in his checks," "Handed in his 
chips," and "Gone over the divide." Toodles was just a cat, and he 
was of the Thomas H. variety. His forbears came from the Island of 
Malta, but he was born in Illinois, and is a Sucker — or at least he was 
when he was a kitten. About the time Toodles got to the age of cat- 
hood, W. S. Bliss, then a resident of Yates City, but now of Hamlet, 
Indiana, took a notion to get married, and went off where he was not 
so well known as he was here, and persuaded a good looking and very 
intelligent girl to marry him, but how he did it is a mystery, and this 
will not admit of any mystery. When they began housekeeping here, 
Mr. Bliss discovered Toodles, and he was a part of the family until 
they moved away, when he was given to Mrs. Angeline Bliss, at whose 
home he passed his days in peace — but not his nights, for Toodles had 
a strident voice, and when he got on the back fence and lifted it in 



302 HUMOROUS 



song half the people in town woke up and swore horrid oaths, and the 
Mariar cats would come out softly and get on the fence with Toodles, 
and nestle close to him, and purr gently, and enjoy the moonlight with 
him. This raised the ire of other less favored Thomases, and they 
would sally forth and yowl defiance, and the battle would be joined, 
and it would end in a great catastrophe to one of the combatants. 
In time this told on Toodles, and he became quiet, sedate and sad, and 
he would sit in the sun and blink, or go out in the pasture lot and 
meditate. 

Some ten days ago he failed to come back, and on search being 
made he was found in a secluded spot, cold in death and stretched in 
rigor mortis. His age was 14 years. Vale, Toodles! Requiescat 
in pace. 

Bob's Calf 

We here refer to a calf that Robert Knightlinger has charge of. 
Last Friday Bob went out to the pasture with a two wheeled cart that 
is constructed to carry a slop barrel from place to place. It was Bob's 
duty to bring the calf home, and as he had the cart on his hands, he 
conceived the brilliant idea of hitching the calf to the cart, thus killing 
two birds with one stone. Bob had no harness, but he took the cow 
rope, attached an end to each side of the halter, and fastened the other 
end to the cart for traces. He then got on the cart, held 
up the handles, and gave the word go. And the calf did go. 
Bob had no idea that any calf could navigate at such a terrific 
rate. He soon found out that while the calf could be easily started, 
stopping it was different, and he soon began to wish that he had 
shipped an anchor before sailing. The calf came down the street at 
a 2 :10 clip, and Bob made up his mind that if his mother ever saw him 
again, it would be as a cold corpse. It is surmised that he made several 
good resolutions before the final catastrophe came — among them that 
he would never swear any more, would quit playing hooky, eschew 
cigarettes, and that just as he saw the end was near, he promised 
himself that he would go to Sunday School, and be a model boy. The 
calf finally left the middle of the street, ran into a bank, played sky- 
ball with Bob, and demolished the cart. If there is a calf that can 
make better time than Bob's, he don't wish to ride behind it. 

Pipsisaway Bill 

Living in the corporate limits of Yates City — by the grace of God 
and the authority of the city council, after the manner of Andy's 
slaughter house — is a man whom we will call Pipsisaway Bill. His 
parents were blessed with a large family — all named Pipsisaway Bill — 



HUMOROUS 803 



after the style of the old down east Yankee who said he had thirteen 
sons all named Isaac except one, and his name was Ichabod. The 
brothers of Pipsisaway Bill have scattered all over this state, and the 
other states and territories of this Glorious Union. I borrow, by per- 
mission, the phrase "Glorious Union," from a neat little volume enti- 
tled, "Fourth of July Soars," by Eminent American Soarists, bound in 
broadcloth, at $50 per soar. Pipsisaway Bill is tall, angular, slab 
sided, shock headed, slightly pigeon toed, stoop shouldered — caused, 
no doubt, by his trying to shoulder everybody's business — perceptibly 
cross-eyed, has long arms terminating in hands that were made when 
nature was in a generous mood and hand material not at all stinted; 
legs that curve outward from the knee either way and are kneesprung 
hindways, and have about one-third of their entire length turn-up in 
such a manner as to answer the purpose of feet, and resemble a couple 
of government scows, while in walking he sets down a foot and takes 
up 18 inches. At first nature seems to have intended to ornament 
Pipsisaway Bill with a red head ; but becoming tired, disgusted, or 
suddenly changing her plan, she made it a sort of yellow ocher color ; 
his mustache is the exact shade of a potato vine growing in a dark 
cellar, and his beard is a reluctant compromise between the color of a 
frost bitten pumpkin and a brindle steer ; a careful study of his face 
leaves the impression on one's mind that the original intention was to 
improve the general appearance of Pipsisaway Bill by freckling his 
face, but after a few were put on it was thought that Bill could never 
be otherwise than prepossessing in appearance, and the rest of the 
freckles were saved for some one not so highly favored in other facial 
adornments. But the crowning glory of Pipsisaway Bill's personality 
is in his ears; they are long, wide, thin, and so transparent that you 
can see objects through them when he turns them between you and the 
sun ; Bill has the power of moving the entire scalp of his head at will 
by a simple contraction of the muscles, and can wiggle his ears a la 
the mule. Pipsisaway Bill is six feet two inches tall, weighs 163 pounds, 
and is an easy and fluent conversationalist. Bill's tongue is flexible, 
pivoted in the middle, and both ends go flur-a-laly — like the tail of a 
sucking lamb — and, like the aspen, the least breeze sets it in motion. 
He is 26 years old, but has had more experience than anybody; his 
educational term was short, but he made out to lick three large and 
powerful teachers before he was fourteen. His battles with schoolmates 
were numerous, and he always scored a victory; he rode all the horse 
races, and won them ; he was the lucky man in every raffle, he held the 
winning ticket in every lottery ; he threw all competitors in wrestles ; 
he outran the man who wore the belt of the champion racer; he rode 
the horse that no one else dared to mount ; got all the turkeys at shoot- 
ing matches ; swam the river where no other man dared to try it ; skated 



804 HUMOROUS 



across the lake when the ice was as thin as the speech of a pettifogging 
lawyer ; plowed more acreig in a day than had ever before been plowed ; 
bound more wheat, husked more corn, cut more fodder, caught more 
and larger fish, dug more post holes, dived deeper in the lake, climbed 
higher on the liberty pole, jumped seven inches farther, and killed 
more wolves than any other individual. Pipsisaway Bill has caught 
oysters in Chesapeake Bay, and sea lions in the Pacific Ocean; has 
trapped beaver on the Red River of the North, and shot alligators in 
the lagoons and bayous of the lower Mississippi; has killed seventeen 
cowboys in Texas, and took the scalps of five full grown mountain lions 
in California; has fought and conquered the terrible grizzly of the 
Rockies with no weapons but his two fists, a wooden toothpick and his 
mother's cambric needle, that, fortunately, was left by accident in his 
vest pocket; has encountered eleven wild Comanche bucks, killed 
seven of them in a running fight, and captured eight squaws and three 
pappooses as trophies of the conflict. Pipsisaway Bill discovered the 
two richest mines in the west, and he knows now just where he can 
go and gather gold until it would cause the cheek of a tobacco sign 
to flush with pride to think that it is permitted to stand out in the 
sunshine and storm in a country so highly favored in mineral wealth. 
These facts we have from the lips of Pipsisaway Bill himself, and we 
feel entire confidence in stating to our readers that we do not doubt 
the reliability of the statements. As an enterprising newspaper man 
we would scorn to use a second hand story; the fact is it isn't neces- 
sary; it's the easiest thing in the world to get information from Pip- 
sisaway Bill ; all you have to do is to find him, clear your throat as if 
you are about to speak, and if you don't get a full and complete history 
of Bill's travels and experiences, then you may look for honest politi- 
cians, editors who won't lie for pay, lawyers who won't take all their 
clients' money in fees, railroad conductors who won't "knock down" 
fares, gamblers who won't cheat, and women who will say candidly 
that another woman is good looking. Pipsisaway Bill is at present 
loafing about the stores, restaurants and hotels, but after harvest he 
is going west — so he says. 

Dago, Bear, Monkey- 
Last Friday the Italian band came here with the usual outfit of 
bear, monkey and bull dog, only that the Dagoes had a couple of inches 
more filth stuck on them than is usual for even a Dago, and that the 
smell they emitted so rankled in the poisoned air that Theodore Cun- 
ningham is supposed to have mistaken it for the offensive effluvia of 
the dead democratic party, which he stoutly asserts has been dead for 
the past two years, that the monkey was a dead mate for a man who 



HUMOROUS 806 



at one time declared that he had "sot down in a crock of cream," and 
that the bear was lean, gaunt, starved, old, totally blind, and daily 
tortured, a chain on his jaw, a cruel ring in his nose, and the principal 
part of his ears already in the maw of the devilishly vicious bull dog. 
There were two or three nondescripts along, supposed to be females of 
some species — may have been meant for women — but so covered by the 
accumulated nastiness of years that their voices sounded like echoes 
from some cave in a gigantic manure pile. They camped here over 
Sunday, and twice let the bear — the poor, old, decrepit, blind bear — 
fight. It was an exhibition compared to which savage cruelty would 
be refinement. The dog would fasten his vise-like jaws in the bear's 
ears and hang on until the pain maddened brute would get the dog in 
his embrace and begin to squeeze his life out, when one of the Dagoes 
would bite the dog's tail until it opened its mouth to yelp, and then it 
would be jerked out of the bear's grasp. It is said that about fifty of 
our people chipped in to raise 25 cents to get to see this exhibition. 
We were about to write a scathing article on "The Brutality of the 
Spanish Sunday Bull Fight," but we sneaked the few sheets we had 
prepared into the stove. Why berate Spain, ignorant, superstitious, 
priest-ridden Spain, when the people of Yates City, with the Banner, 
the loving unity of one church and the rigid Puritanism of the other, 
the model excellency of her schools, the influence of her Epworth 
League and Christian Endeavor, with their adjuncts, the Juniors, the 
W. C. T. U., the L. T. L.'s, the Missionary Societies, the Sunday Schools, 
the Cemetery Association, the best library of its kind, the free reading 
room, the tender poetry of Wren, the fervid eloquence of Truitt, the 
scintillating, judicial acumen of Kightlinger, the brilliant corruscatings 
of Hensley, the soothing music of Lawrence, to say nothing of the 
humanizing, civilizing, enlightening influence of the billiard hall and 
the saloon, has not been elevated beyond the point of contributing two 
bits to have a stinking Dago set a vicious bull pup to torturing a help- 
less, blind bear? Excuse us from berating Spain; we would doff our 
hat to the vilest Cannibal whom we met eating meat from the shin- 
bone of a missionary, and realize that he was superior to any excuse 
for a man who would aid, abet or encourage a loud smelling Dago to 
set a bull dog on a poor, old, blind bear on Sunday — or any other day. 

An Episode 

There was an episode in town Tuesday. Let no one get alarmed, 
an episode is not so dangerous as a grizzly bear, and this one was like 
a comet, it did not remain. It happened this way, if our information 
be not at fault: Some time ago a young man from a neighboring 
town — might be Maquon — was in the city, and his purse being like that 



306 HUMOROUS 



of a country editor, that is, "M T," he requested Bert Goold to let 
him share his couch, for it was one of those nights when borean blasts 
toyed about the nether part of one's panty legs in such a manner as 
to make one think that said blast had recently kissed the bald forehead 
of a glacier, and Bert, in the kindness of his sympathetic heart, per- 
mitted him to nestle in his bosom even until the breaking of another 
day. But man's ingratitude is proverbial, and when the young man 
arose his practical eye told him Bert's new hat would be a more sightly 
ornament with which to cover his knowledge box, and so he took it, 
left his own old tile, and departed. When Bert saw that battered tile 
the old Adam rose within him, and in the language of the canny Scot 
in the days when the Grant and the McPhearson cultivated the deadly 
feud said, "I bide my time." That time came Tuesday, when the man 
again appeared in town, bowing and smiling under that identical hat. 
Bert went to him and asked him to give up his property, but he flatly 
refused ; he then offered to lick him ; he did not want a licking ; he 
went to the livery stable and ordered out his rig, but just as he got 
seated the form of the now irate Bert loomed up before him, again 
demanding his hat; again he met refusal, and his strong right arm 
weighed out one of his eighteen hundred pound blows, and it caught 
the mug of the cute young man, and he wilted a la Jonah's gourd; the 
hat fell at the feet of the victor, some one picked it up and gave it to 
the rightful owner, and the young man, his dome of thought bared to 
the pitiless elements, sought a hat store, left town and this episode 
was ended. 

Blessing an Editor 

Editor C. D. Benfield, of the Maquon Chronicle, was in the city 
Tuesday morning, and spent a short time in our office. He intimates 
that he has laid a firm hold on the journalist situation in Maquon, 
that he is flourishing like a green sorrel tree, and that the main ques- 
tion with him in the near future is going to be how he can invest the 
surplus to the best advantage. We are disposed to take some credit 
for Benfield 's success. When we first laid eyes on Benfield we said 
this man has a wonderful likeness to the late Horace Greely. Yes, we 
did ; and that, too, in spite of the fact that he was trying to fool him- 
self into the belief that he was able to mock Joe Jefferson in his rendi- 
tion of Bill Shakespeare. We intuitively knew he was a journalist, and 
our eagle eye saw that the very conformation of the physical man 
was evidence that he was an editor, and not an actor, for if ever a 
man was destined to sit gracefully on a tripod, isn 't that man Benfield ? 
Well, we guess yes. And when he did go into the work we said 
Ah ha ! true as preaching we did. And we did more ; we sawed off one 
of our choicest blessings and gave it him, and said, "Sock it to 'em, 



HUMOROUS 307 



Benfield," and he did, and now he has triumphed gloriously, and we 
are here now to lay our broad, cool palm on his bald head, and in a 
fine burst of unselfish admiration exclaim, "Bully for old Benfield!" 

The Ground Hog on Easter 

One great event has happened; ground hog day has been neatly 
folded up, sprinkled with camphor gum and fine cut tobacco, and laid 
away to rest until next February. A slight moisture dims these optics, 
for we had become accustomed to ground hog day. True, it had devel- 
oped some differences of opinion ; true, it had engendered some strife ; 
true, it had multiplied theories until no one was sure what he believed 
on the subject. But it had amused the public, and it is about as cheap 
a way to amuse the public as we have ever figured on; it don't cost 
so much as one of Eli Perkins's lectures, and probably no larger amount 
of prevaricates pervades the one than permeates the other; it is not, 
perhaps, so instructive as one of Beecher's farewell speeches, but one 
can look a ground hog theory in the face and see no mutual friend 
standing in the background of the familiar picture ; it may not draw 
as large a crowd as Bob Ingersoll does when he tackles Moses — Moses 
has been dead for some years — at several hundred dollars per tackle, 
but there is absolutely no smell of egotism detected about the ground 
hog theory. This being the case, we are willing to spare a slight mois- 
ture in our eye for the ground hog. But we find that age is reducing 
the fountain of our weeps. It don't slop over and drop on our coat 
sleeve as it once did. We don't mind telling you in confidence that we 
wept on account of the ground hog once before ; it was years ago ; we 
were a careless boy then, wearing a rimless hat and one frail suspender 
with a piece of pantaloons hanging to it; our mustache and fame were 
both in the future ; the former came with the whirling years ; we went 
down on Littler 's Creek one mellow autumn afternoon and found a 
hole in the hillside ; with the proverbial avidity of youth thirsting to 
investigate the mysteries of nature, we dug into the dim recesses of 
that hole; we had not the least doubt but it contained a thirteen 
pound mystery, twenty-two carats fine — but it didn't — it contained a 
ground hog, a robust specimen, of the male gender, warranted never to 
slip a cog or miss a motion; we reached in our hand to seize him 
by his hoary locks and drag him forth in triumph from his lair; he 
resented our gentle endeavor; he made one lunge at our extended 
digits and scooped out a chunk of cannibal fodder from our fore finger 
that left the white bone glistening in the rays of the setting sun like 
the bald pate of a new born infant; then we wept; we felt like it; we 
were alone with one of the first great sorrows of life, with no one to 
console us, and we lifted up our voice freely and let our tears fall on 



808 HUMOROUS 



our bare toes. It will thus be seen that we are no novice in dimming 
our vision with moisture gendered by the ground hog. But, as we said, 
ground hog day has been folded up and laid away until next year; 
we have no desire to interfere with the arrangements. As a chronicler 
it is our duty to record that Easter Sunday has effaced the bright 
effulgence of ground hog day. It was thus : it rained on Easter Sun- 
day, and if there has ever been one event evolved from the prolific 
womb of time that everlastingly scoops ground hog day it is a rainy 
Easter Sunday. It will no doubt occupy the boards until the day on 
which the American people take their annual tAvist at the tail of the 
British lion, and permit the great American boiled owl to soar aloft. 
John Brimmer says if it rains on Easter Sunday it will rain for nine 
more Sundays ; Wm. Philbee says it will rain nine consecutive Mon- 
days; Lew Bales says it will rain six Sundays; Andy Alpaugh says it 
will be "werry" apt to rain eleven more weeks; Wellington Series 
says if it rains Easter you must hang on to your watch and be careful 
to what Peoria house you consign butter ; Steve Boyer says he would 
not trust Series to pick out his boarding place in Peoria ; Lara Kehoe 
says he never knew it to rain on an average over fifty-two Sundays in 
a year; Jack Kightlinger says he gets in out of the wet on election 
day; George Stone says that he "niver heerd o' ony such toimes in 
the ould counthry;" Pet Thomson says he'll be — (here Pet uses a very 
naughty cuss word that printers never use) if he believes any of them 
are right, and wants to know how in shoel they are going to prove 
it? At last we appealed to J. A. Irving, and he says, "Well, now, see 
here; it's jes' like this: after reflecting carefully on all the different 
points, and listening to the able opinions of those who have told what 
they know, I have about concluded that if it rains on Easter Sunday 
there will be a considerable spell of weather follow of some sort." Of 
course we do not claim that we have given our readers the highest 
authority in the city, for Benny Shaffer is confined to the house by a 
sore leg ; this prevents us from giving the most reliable data on the 
weather. As it is, we suspect that Easter Sunday will loom up on the 
discordant future, black as a storm cloud, and vengeful as a full 
sized cyclone. 

Rammy, Rammy, Ram 

D. W. Hambrick is a painter who, in days gone by, resided in 
Yates City; but of late years he has taken up his abode in Maquon; 
he is one of the best men in the world, and would not harm an}^ living 
creature; in fact, we think he was intended for one of the "early 
Christians," so meek is he. He is not painting much this rough 
weather, and so he fills in the time by delving in the earth after black 
diamonds; or, in other words, he digs coal. In the field where the 



HUMOROUS 309 



mine is situated a flock of sheep are wont to spend the sunny days, 
nipping the dry grass and amusing themselves in the best way known 
to sheep. Of course, being sheep, they were nearly all innocent ; in 
fact, they all were except one old, rantankerous ram, that seemed to 
be possessed of a large degree of the spirit of Beelzebub; he is old 
in years, and older still in all that goes to make up the character of a 
vicious ram. On Wednesday, as Mr. Hambrick emerged from his labors, 
covered over with the black from the bituminous fuel, he noticed the 
ram standing a short distance off and looking as forlorn and sad as if 
all his relations had died at once, and he had just returned from the 
funeral. Hambrick took pity on the poor old ram, and in order to 
divert him from his great sorrow, he put down his head and made 
sundry playful motions at his woolly friend. His ramship looked on 
gravely for a moment, caught the idea — or thought he did — and, dart- 
ing forward like a blue streak of lightning going through a crab apple 
orchard, he planted his antlers square on the sconce of Hambrick. 
Great world alive! Was he not surprised? Why, he thought that he 
was in a collision, had been struck by the engine, and was sailing 
through starry fields, straight up to glory. The ram assumed his 
former innocent look. Hambrick picked himself up and started toward 
home, with the intention of going into "dry dock." 

Moral : Never fool with a ram ; better make faces at your mother- 
in-law. 

An Editorial Genius 

S. P. Whiting has retired from the editorship of the Altona Jour- 
nal, after fourteen years of vain endeavor to make a suffering public 
appreciate his peculiar style of journalism — which he was pleased to 
style genius. Well, if his style was not exactly genius, it cannot be de- 
nied that it was original. While Sam sat astride the editorial tripod 
poor old Lindsay Murray's bones rattled in their casket — always pro- 
viding that there were caskets in the day he was gathered to his ances 
tors — and that bothersome old codger, Noah Webster, LL. D., groaned 
in spirit. Sam was the first man to place printing in the category of fine 
arts. Before his time typos held to the idea that a monosyllable was 
an indivisible thing, but during his career they were separated with 
the boldest impunity. No man has ever lived on the earth whose edi- 
torial could at all be compared to Sam's. It could not be charged 
against him that they were borrowed, for there was no place from 
which he could purloin them. They were like Sam himself, "Fearfully 
and wonderfully made." True, they were not appreciated; yea, we 
doubt if they were even admired ; but that was because no living mortal 
was ever able to tell what they meant. They were of that character 
that left the impression on the mind of the reader that they might be 



310 HUMOROUS 



his ideas on politics, religion, science, or else a receipt for making a 
salve that would cure the itch. Now that Sam has decided to let his 
pencil lie unused on the headrail of his bedstead, and has laid his stick 
and rule on the top shelf of the pantry, we fear his peculiar style will 
take a prominent position beside the dead languages. In writing this 
little criticism of Sam's editorial career — which was brilliant, if not 
short — "the reader may suspect us, as we suspect ourselves," of a 
tinge of envy at Sam's higher attainments; but we have tried to be as 
impartial as possible, and we will close by saying of him, as the Chinese 
said of his idol: "We know that he was ugly, but we feel that he 
was great." 

A Sick Editor 

The editor has been sick. One week ago last Saturday he took 
the horse distemper ; on Sunday it developed into the epizootic ; on 
Monday it was the pink-eye and on Tuesday the glanders. There are 
numerous phases of each of these, and we have been introduced to 
them all. Our nose — that handsome nasal ornament, that we set such 
store by — has been blowed until it is sorrier than a town that has been 
struck by a cyclone. And those stupendous ears, that erstwhile stood 
up erect and bold as the bald front of Mount Blanc, now lop down 
like two huge barn doors wrested from their hinges. To him, the voice 
of the boy who could swear the loudest has sounded the sweetest. 
And those two old snags that ornament the larboard side of his jaw 
on the upper tier have heaved like two baby volcanoes. The foreman 
in the office is getting his life insured ; the compositors have formed a 
safety society, while the "devil" has actually become so subdued that 
when he calls for copy his voice can scarcely be heard a mile. How 
a man would fare if he called to pay his subscription we have no means 
of knowing, as no one has been rash enough to attempt such a danger- 
ous experiment. The editor of this paper is sick. 

A Meteor 

Those grasping sinners who arose before six o'clock on the morn- 
ing of January 2, 1890, came very nearly being frightened into a pious 
streak by a large meteor that came from the northwest and went 
southeast, exploding over in the neighborhood of Gus Dalton's. Of 
course those good, honest, religious people — of whom we are a shining 
example — who were calmly reposing in bed, were not agitated by the 
meteor. Some assert that it burst in Gus Dalton's field and threw 
cockle burs to a distance of twenty-one lineal miles, but we take no 
stock in this report, and positively state that we do not believe it. It 
is also reported that W. H. Longden took it for a special call to the 



HUMOROUS 311 



unconverted, and thought seriously of joining Elder Morse's church. 
"We would be glad to deny this story also, but the fact that he was seen 
in town early in the morning gives so much color to the report that it 
is scarcely safe to contradict it. We are told that M. H. Pease denies 
seeing it at all, and it may be possible that he did not, though he would 
have given eighty acres of land to have done so. Nelson Cunningham — 
who is a Presbyterian — thinks it was intended as a warning to those 
who claim to raise better corn than he does, and — as we lean far over 
toward that faith ourselves — we coincide with his opinion. However, 
all agree that it burst over in Bismark, and we hope that it may be the 
means of reforming some of the striking cases of depravity in that 
section. 

Selecting a School Director 

The city election is past and everybody has made his or her kick 
over the results, and over the appointments of the new council — and 
the council don't care a tinker's swear. The township election is past, 
the dead have been buried, the wounded are on the road to recovery, 
and resolves have been made to get even next year. But Saturday will 
give the citizens a chance for another go at the privileges of those 
entitled to vote, as a school director is then to be selected. Care should 
be taken as to this selection. A school director should be over one 
year old, and under one hundred; he ought to be able to read and 
write ; he should have the meekness of Moses, the patience of Job, and 
the wisdom of Solomon ; he should not be given too much wine — in fact, 
he should not drink over three pints in twenty-four hours ; he should 
be a white man and born in Yates City if possible — as no outsider, nor 
any one else for that matter — can understand the intricate subtleties 
of our common school system; he should be the husband of one wife, 
so that his domestic squabbles may not occupy all his time, thus giving 
him leisure to attend to the duties of the office ; he should be the father 
of no children, for it is borne in upon us that those having no children 
know best — in theory — how to manage the miniature men and women 
of others; he should be a man with a thick epidermis, not easily 
affected by a cussing, and a man of great self conceit, so that he may 
be satisfied with what he himself does — for it is certain no one else 
will be ; he should be a man of moderate means, for the position is one 
in which the opportunities for accumulating scads of money are plen- 
tiful. If such a man can be found let him be elected, even if he knows 
not the difference between a parallelogram and a velocipede. 

Gus Dalton and the Honey 

Gus Dalton is a lover of honey and has the most beatinest nose for 
a bee tree of any man on the job, and can find them if any there be. 



312 HUMOROUS 



Some two weeks ago Gus went to Liverpool, on the Illinois River, 
on a hunting and fishing expedition. One day he was some distance 
south of the camp and started to walk back, and, becoming weary, he 
sat down on a log to rest, and, looking around, noticed an eight 
gallon beer keg that had lodged in a pile of drift, and, seeing what he 
thought was a large number of flies about it, he went to examine it, 
and discovered that a swarm of bees had taken possession of the keg 
and filled it with honey. He took the keg to the camp, where he found 
that the bees, in order to economize space, had put in the honey in a 
liquid form, omitting the comb. He took a beer faucet — we are not 
informed as to how he happened to have a beer faucet — and inserted 
it in the bung, and drew out seventeen gallons of pure strained honey. 
In order that his story might be corroborated and proved, Gus brought 
the bunghole of the beer keg home and had it framed and hung up 
in his home, where it may be seen. 

Friendly Wishes 

B. T. Elderkin, who is the most rotund, ornate, chaste, and vir- 
tuous democrat in the Tenth Congressional District, was in the city 
Thursday, in the interests of the Peoria Daily Herald. Mr. Elderkin is 
an old newspaper man, having filled every position in a printing office, 
from that of devil up to editor ; this is why peace — like a mighty river 
— rolls over him, and that his "caparasity" resembles that of Clark E. 
Carr. Elderkin is a democrat of strong and abiding faith, and hopes 
of roseate hue, and he has climbed Pisgah's heights, and is gazing 
right down into the promised land, where he believes all good demo- 
crats will browse in green pastures, and eat "lowcusses and wild 
hominy," after 1892, when he expects Grover to level the walls of the 
republican Jericho with one mighty blast on his foghorn. After Elder- 
kin had interviewed us in our office, we had a struggle to keep from 
exclaiming, "Almost thou persuadest me to be a "dimikrat." We 
have an abiding love for Elderkin, and we want him to live until he 
knocks his brains out against the gold bell knob of his own brownstone 
front, and we feel confident that seventeen of the most beautiful angels 
will grab him, convey him to Paradise, seat him in the big arm chair, 
furnish him a palm as big as an elephant's ear, and give him the best 
harp in the whole outfit ; and he deserves it all. 

Dixon's Arch of Ice 

Sunday morning was the coldest of the season. All over the 
city thermometers indicated from 16 to 20 degrees below zero and 
thousands of the poorer people in the lower wards of the city suffered 



H U MO ROUS 813 



intensely. Monday morning we met Mr. J. W. Dixon, cashier of the 
People's Bank, in the postoflfice, and he told us that he went out and 
threw a bucket of water up over the house, and it froze in a complete 
arch or bow, and it was still standing there at noon the next day. Mr. 
Dixon says it was the finest sight he ever saw when the sun was shining 
on that arch of solid ice. Mr. Dixon insisted on our going out to his 
home to see it, but the weather was bitter cold, and besides we thought 
it would look a little as if we doubted his word, and we declined to 
go. All the reason we mention this is so that those who saw the reflec- 
tion and thought it was the northern lights may be posted on what 
the phenomenon really was. 

A Close Contest 

Dr. Royce and the editor had a rabbit skinning contest Wednes- 
day night. The winner was to get a large piece of cake. After a few 
false starts they got away in good style, the editor leading on the first 
quarter by a good length ; the second quarter closed the gap, and they 
crossed the half mile with the doctor close to the wheel, both going in 
fine style ; on the third quarter both appeared to be preparing for the 
final struggle ; the doctor made a bad break, but settled down to busi- 
ness, and as they crossed the third quarter was lapping the wheel and 
making desperate efforts to close the gap. At this point the interest 
became intense, the doctor took a fresh hitch on his pants, and the 
editor spit on his hands. Then the fur began to fly in earnest. The 
doctor took the lead for half of the home stretch, when the editor 
made one of his famous spurts, then came down the home stretch 
neck and neck, until within a few rods of the wire, when the doctor's 
knowledge of surgery enabled him to cross the wire three inches ahead, 
amid the wildest applause. 

The editor kicked some on the decision, but it was no doubt owing 
to the fact that cake was the prize. 

Time — 44 min. 5 sec, and 44 min. 10 sec. 

The "Devil" Goes to a Wedding 

Last week the junior member of the corporation that runs this 
great model pendulum got invited to a wedding. As he had succeeded 
in getting a pair of new pants with wide legs, and there was more than 
an average prospect of getting a meal adorned with "chickin fixins'," 
he was just possessed to go, nolens volens. This left us without help ; 
but that great and good man, David Corbin, who can do anything from 
tuning a jewsharp to laying brick, came in, saw that we were non est, 
pulled off his coat, hung his hat on the floor in one corner, pushed 



314 HUMOROUS 



up his gray locks, pulled down his white beard, and in a style that 
would have done honor to Horace Greeley, he helped us to get out the 
Banner. The only thing that vexed David's soul was the interruptions 
caused by people coming in to subscribe and pay up for the paper. 
Dave said: "Drat 'em, why can't they stay out until we get the paper 
oflp?" But we did not find any fault. Our thanks are hereby given to 
David — we have some thanks left, but no money — and we will just 
say in conclusion — a phrase we borrow from the preachers — that if 
we had twenty sons to name, every one of them would be called David 
Corbin McKeighan. 

A Water Haul 

It transpires that Messrs. Ewalt, Bird, Westburg and Lower failed 
to catch any fish "Wednesday. It is reported that when Squire J. A. 
Hensley crossed French Creek and Spoon River the evening before, he 
warned the fish that the boys were coming and that night the fish took 
their wives and their little ones and sought safety in flight. The Squire 
is a tender-hearted man, and no doubt his warning saved the lives of 
a multitude of fishes. We trust that this explanation will prevent any 
stain on the reputation of the fishermen who took part in the ill-starred 
expedition of Wednesday. It is said — and no doubt is correct — that 
as soon as Burt Lower saw that the fish had gone — being the best 
versed in the scriptures — quoted this sublime and appropriate text : 
"An enemy hath done this," and Jonas Ewalt — thinking for a moment 
that he was in the Amen corner — said, "Yea, verily!" 

Suggestions to Farmers 

When we awoke on Wednesday morning the ground was covered 
with hoar frost. Hoar frost is an expression in general use among the 
best writers and speakers, and is considered complimentary to the frost. 
As soon as we became aware that Winter, with his icy breath and 
chilling touch, really meant to get down to business, we determined 
to warn our farmer friends to be on their guard. It is high time to 
make preparances. Sweet potatoes should be carefully picked ; do not 
shake them down ; millions of dollars are annually lost by careless 
farmers shaking down their sweet potatoes instead of climbing to get 
them. Many farmers give as a reason that they do not have ladders. 
But why not plant a few rows of ladders in the kitchen garden? If 
planted early, in hills, at a distance of 3 feet 7 inches each way, we 
see no good reason why a thrifty farmer might not only have ladders 
for his own use, but he might sell a few to help pay his grocery bill. 
But at any rate it would be better to buy ladders than to spoil the 
sweet potato crop. 



HUMOROUS 815 



Do not neglect to bury cross-cut saws before severe frost. It is a 
mistake to suppose that the cross-cut saw is a hardy plant. One 
severe frost will completely kill the germ of the cross-cut saw, and then 
next year's crop is endangered, or much valuable time lost the next 
spring looking up good seed. The early market for cross-cut saws is 
always the best, and therefore the most profitable. 

Tomatoes should be dug by the 10th or 15th of October. There 
may be a few strains of the tomato that will do to risk longer, such as 
the Herefords, or the Short Horns, but the Polled Angus variety may 
have its horns entirely ruined by neglect, and every agriculturist 
knows that it ruins the tomato. 

Be careful to look after the barbed wire pump. In the days of 
slipshod farming, when a common rail pump was considered good 
enough, so much care was not necessary. But the high state of breed- 
ing to which it has lately been subjected has made it a tender plant, 
and it must be protected. We have a theory that the barbed wire 
pump has been too closely in-bred. But as this is a subject demanding 
more space than we can give it now, we pass it by. 

We notice, with great pleasure, that our granger friend, Aleck 
Kerns, had most of his pumpkins husked this morning. We commend 
his manner of husking them. Too many people only about half husk 
a pumpkin, leaving what is technically called "ribbons" all over it. 
This is a reprehensible practice that we feel we can not too severely 
condemn. Mr. Kerns raises the Yellow Dent variety — at least we 
noticed that some of them were yellow and had a few dents in them — 
and he assures us that the curculio or the coddling moth never molests 
it; that it has a stiff er straw than any other variety; which prevents 
it from crinkling before the heads are fully ripe, and that when this 
straw is properly stacked the Plymouth Rock calves will eat it with 
great avidity. 

Cucumbers should be mulched ; if this can not be done, cover them 
with horse blankets, even if you have to kill a horse to obtain the 
blankets; if you neglect this a portion of your cucumbers will come 
out in the spring thin in flesh, the hair turned the wrong way, puny 
in appetite, and with great danger of the hollow horn getting into 
the herd. 

There may be other matters, perhaps as important as those we 
have mentioned, but we happen to think of none at present, except it 
be to advise you to subscribe for the Banner. If you neglect this we 
fear that the fur of the domestic hop-toad will yet monopolize the mar- 
kets of the world. 



316 HUMOROUS 



Unmourned, But Not Unsung 

Nettie Jaquith's old white eat came to the termination of his nine 
lives some days ago. He was an animal of nocturnal habits and melo- 
dious voice. The quiet of the stilly night has many a time and oft been 
broken, as his dulcet notes rolled out with grating sound, as if some 
plebeian wood sawyer did bend his energies to file his saw. It was 
his delight to visit all the other cats for blocks around, and sing to 
them a solo, terrific in its noise. Oft has he sat upon the fence and 
yowled, and yowled, and spit his venom out, and woke the echoes — 
and the sleepers, too — with song of amorous intent, just at that hour 
when graveyards yawn and spectral shapes glide in mysterious zig- 
zags o'er the earth; nor heeded he that at that solemn hour one day 
died just as another day was being born. He did not seem to care for 
these events o'er which philosophers have puzzled, and poets sung in 
raptures. It was evident that he was a wanton cat, on pleasure bent, 
and had fallen in love with his own voice. The writer can testify to 
all these facts, for often when bereft of sleep by the unearthly cater- 
wauls, he has arisen and stolen out and braved the chilly fogs and 
damps of poisonous airs, and hurled great chunks of coal, fragmentary 
rocks, old pans, rejected boots, clubs and pieces of crockery at his 
retreating form, in hopes of cutting short his earthly career; but 
always was our aim defective, and he escaped scott free. But time, 
that evens all things, laid him low, and Death, that knows no pity, but 
is relentless as an old maid whose love has been spurned, at last put 
a quietus on his diabolic yowls, and so a grave was hollowed out, and 
in he was tumbled. There let him "Requiescat in pace." 

Unique Rocking Chairs 

We were shown a couple of cute rustic rocking chairs, at the shop 
of Newell Livermore, that are certainly rather unique. They may be 
called Siamese twins rocking chairs. There are two seats facing in 
opposite directions, having only three rockers. If two persons are 
seated, one in each of the chairs, it brings their faces most delightfully 
close together — that is, if one of the persons be a charming lady. In 
fact, it would look to us to be a very dangerous juxtaposition to be 
seated in these chairs with a lady, on a porch, when the mellow moon- 
light is flooding the landscape on a rare night in June. "We made an 
attempt to gain some information as to Mr. Livermore 's own experi- 
ence in this line, but just then something on the bell tower of the 
new Presbyterian church attracted the old man's attention, and he 
seemed to have not heard our query and did not answer, but there 
was a strange light in his eyes and a joyous look on his face, as if 



HUMOROUS 817 



some very pleasant memory of the past had come to him. "We now 
feel confident that he did not want to tell his own experience with the 
double rocker, nor how he came to invent such a chair, but we have 
our opinion, and if the best woman in America ever makes a widower 
of us, he can count on selling us twin rockers. 

A New Stove 

Last Friday was a red letter day for the men who have charge 
of the Q. depot in Yates City. Away back in the dim distance of the 
mystic past, a stove was put into the depot in this place. It was long 
ago. Alex Kerns, Bostic Kent and Duke Coykendall were small kids, 
playing mumble peg, when that stove began its career in our depot. 
David Corbin wanted to play with the other three boys, but they told 
him he was not large enough, and that they wanted no one in the 
game who was under 5 years of age. That stove has been in constant 
use from that day until last Friday. For fifty years it was considered 
a good heater and was used for that purpose in winter, and in summer 
it was used as a target by tobacco chewers, who sat on a row of very 
uncomfortable benches ranged around the walls, and apparently three 
out of every five hit it with remarkable precision. Seventeen years 
ago, along in the latter part of the winter, this stove began to exhibit 
evidences of old age. The boys in the office called the attention of 
the company to the fact that its days of usefulness were ended. They 
promised to see that a new one would be put in at once, and with the 
remarkable celerity that is a distinguishing characteristic of the Q. 
Company, the new stove arrived last Friday, only seventeen years and 
eleven days after the request for it was sent in. When it was unloaded 
the attaches of the office were so surprised that for the space of two 
minutes and forty-five seconds no work was done, and not a word was 
spoken. Then H. S. Stephens made a break for the door, turned seven 
double handsprings, jumped over three trucks and sprinted to the 
elevators and back, in the record breaking time of 17 minutes and 12 
seconds. Don C. Root became rooted to tlje spot and had to be torn 
loose by main force, and Chas. Walker walked up town and invested 
3 cents in peanuts, and went back and treated the entire force, insist- 
ing that S. P. Hasselbacher should eat all the peanuts he wanted, even 
if it took half of them. But the most surprised man of all was the 
mail carrier, W. H. McKinley, who declared that he had never been 
so surprised since the days of 1864, when he seized the Southern Con- 
federacy by the nape of the neck and shook its toe nails off. Bill said 
he felt like a hot tamale and that he would trade his overcoat and 
overshoes for the singing of a good old song, sung by any person 
except the editor of the Banner. 



318 HUMOROUS 



A Spurt of Spring 

Last Saturday old winter turned his freezing glances away from 
us and permitted us to say: "Hale, gentle spring! Ethereal mildness, 
come." It did come, too, with so much "ethereal mildness" on Sun- 
day, that all nature felt the thrill, "And youth and beauty every- 
where, seemed bursting into life." In fact, we were beguiled into the 
belief that "Winter was over and gone," and in the evening we heard 
music wafted toward us on "The still evening air," and we thought 
that Dr. H. J. Hensley and C. A. Stetson had broken into song, and 
were wafting heavenward the strains of "The good old summer time," 
and we went out to listen to the charming music — good music has a 
charm for us that we have never been able to resist since that early 
morn in 1881 when John W. Bird went up Main street with old Dan, 
that noble old dun, hitched in the thills, while John stood on the 
quarterdeck of the two wheeled dray and sang: 

"Possum up a gum stump, 
Cooney in a hollow, 
Wake snakes and June bugs, 
I'll give you half a dollar." 

It was "Grand, terrific and sublime," and it touched us in one of our 
soft spots — there are several of them scattered over our anatomy; 
nature seems to have used a "Lavish hand" when bestowing them — 
but only to discover that it wasn't Dock and Charlie at all, but just the 
frogs in the ditch along the side of the railroad, down by the now 
lonely abode of "Whack" Slater, croaking for more rain. When 
we first realized that is wasn't Dock and Charlie, a chunk of sorrow 
as large as a woodchuck crept into our heart and sat down, seemingly 
bent on a lengthy visit, but we said, no, you must move out, this dis- 
appointment is a great sorrow, but "It can but add one bitter woe 
to those already here," and we "Will bear the ills we have," rather 
than "Ply to others that we know not of," for "Grief, in time, is tear- 
less grief," and we feel that while "Weeping may endure for a night, 
joy cometh in the morning." So we did "Awake from sorrow's 
dream," and just then the wind woke up, too, and swept down from 
"Icy north," and old winter "Rode back on the blast," and squatted 
in the lap of spring, "The mean old thing," and there the blamed old 
cuss is lolling at this blessed moment. 

The Big Stick 

We read that in the olden times the disciples were together in an 
upper room. Well, not so long ago, in fact, scarce a fortnight agone, 
a party of disciples were together in an upper room in Yates City, 
but of course not exactly the same kind of disciples, and about the 



HUMOROUS 819 



holy midnight hour, when graveyards yawn and ghosts do walk, a 
woman appeared to these terrified disciples, and in one hand, so fair 
and white, she held a lantern, and in the other, firmly grasped, she bore 
a club of vast circumference and ponderous weight, and in a voice 
whose tones struck terror to each heart, she said, "This club is trumps; 
I'll rake this jackpot in. Begone!" In ten short seconds she was 
there alone, while several pairs of heels did clatter on the walk, the 
while their owners were digging desperately for home. 

A Memorable Caucus 

And it came to pass in the fourth month, even the month April, 
that Andy, whose surname is Alpaugh, seeing that the city was given 
over to certain sons of Belial, consulted with a man of much wisdom, 
even with Brimmer, whose front name is John, saying, let us call for 
the people to come together, and let them consult, and afterward let 
them appoint wise men to conduct the affairs of the city. 

So it came to pass that Andy, of the capacious stomach, did cause 
to be posted throughout the city, notices, calling upon all those who 
feared the Lord and eschewed evil, to gather themselves together at 
the great hall of the city, at the going down of the sun, on the third 
day of the fourth month, even the month April. 

And it was so that a vast congregation did assemble themselves, 
insomuch that the walls of the building were in danger and it was so 
that when the people wanted a man to preside over the councils of 
the meeting, that it was perceived that Andy was a man of great under- 
standing — his boots being elevens — and so it was that they cried out, 
"Let Andy be our chairman!" "Let Andy be our chairman!" And 
it was so that he was selected, and he sat in the chair of honor, while 
his bald head loomed up, even as the top of a great mountain. 

Then one of the people arose and said, "Ye do not well; why is it 
ye do not have a scribe?" And the thing seemed good unto them, and 
they essayed to select one Brimmer by name, but he refused to serve, 
saying, "Do not so foolishly; perceive ye not that wisdom is in Irving, 
whose fame in healing the people has extended all over the world?" 
Then did the people repent and call for Irving, who is better known 
as Jack. And he was selected to act as scribe for the people, as it was 
known that he was expert in prescribing for those who felt that more 
spirit should enter into them. 

But no sooner was the scribe appointed than it was found that by 
some means he had taken a dose of his own medicine and that he was 
well nigh drunk. 



320 HUMOROUS 



And it was so that in the assembly were some pious sons of perdi- 
tion, Hensley, the Judge ; Coykendall, who sold the people furniture, 
and thus gathered in many shekels; Kay, a tiller of the soil, and 
Corbin, who was wont to do service for the C, B. & Q. Those men 
stirred up much strife by insisting that the scribe should remove his 
hat and that the chairman should keep order, and in many other ways 
strove to create an uproar. 

And there were certain boys who did not fail to lift up their voices 
on high, even to such an extent that Andy's soul became sorely vext, 
and he was about to abandon the people. 

But there was a man in the assembly who kept an inn, and did 
great service to the people by providing for their wants, in preparing 
pottage and other savory viands. His name was Hunter, but the people 
had given him the name of "Whiner, " because when the game of 
euchre went against him and his shekels went into the other fellow's 
pocket, he invariably lifted up his voice and whined with an ex:ceeding 
bitter whine. 

And it was so that when the people would have dispersed, that 
Hunter, otherwise known as Whiner, said, "Not so; but let us make 
Roberts our chief." But Andy refused to put the motion and as the 
scribe was unceremoniously and suddenly called out by a call that 
might not be gainsaid nor denied, the assembly broke up in great 
commotion. 

And the hoodlums lifted up their voices in derision, saying, 
"Andy's caucus, Andy's caucus; sneak off." 

Thus ended the attempt of Andy to clear the city of those who 
persisted in prosecuting Peg Leg. 

What's in a Name? 

Which family has the shortest dresses? The Tuckeys. — Which 
family should get there first? The Runions. — Which family in town 
should be the most comfortable when the thermometer is over 90? 
The Cools. — Which family in town has the hardest name ? The Stones. 
— Which family all belong to a society? The Masons. — Which family 
are farthest from the east? The Wests. — Which family are the best 
writers? The Penmans. — Which family in town is never short? The 
Longs. — Which family has the best shelter? The Housers. — Which 
family has the largest hands? The Alpaughs. — Which family has the 
most feathers? The Birds. — Which family has the most milk? The 
Cowmans. — Which family has the poorest ground? The Heaths. — 
Which family can haul most? The Carters. — Which family has the 
most meat? The Cunninghams. — Which family is done up in bundles? 



HUMOROUS 821 



The Bales. — Which family is the richest? The Goulds. — Which family 
should be the best barbers? The Shaffers. — Which family can never 
be preachers? The Lehmans. — Which family in town should have the 
most game ? The Hunters. — Which family in town is nearest the ceme- 
tery? The Graves. — Which is the oldest family in town? The Adams. 
— Which family is the hardest to climb? The Hills. — Which family 
can you tie to the easiest? The Fetters. — Which family has no color? 
The Whites. — Which family is finished? The Dunns. — Which family 
is well done? The Browns. — Which family owns the most timber? 
The Woods. — Which family has the least water? The Sol (d) wells. — 
Which family has the hardest road to travel? The Jordans. — Which 
family has the best fire? The Burn-ets. — Which family burrows in the 
earth? The Hares. — Which family lives farthest from the street? The 
Aleys. — Which family has a county named after it? Fultons. — Which 
family should be the happiest? The Blisses. — Which family has a 
shrunk shoulder? The Sweeney. — Which family is the shyest? The 
Coy-kendalls. — Which family has the largest farms? The Broadfields. 
— Which family soars the highest? The Kightlingers. — Which family 
can fly the easiest? The Wings. — Which family has no girls? Bey- 
er's. — Which family get honey the easiest? The Bee-sons. — Which 
family rules? The Kings. — Which family has the best roof? The 
Slaters. — Which family should have the best fitting clothes? The 
Taylors. 

A New Organ 

The Masonic and Odd Fellows lodges of Yates City meet in the 
same hall, and Tuesday they jointly put in a fine new organ, and the 
ears of their respective goats will, from now on, and from henceforth 
be larumed by sweet tones gently stealing — in upon them, thus reveal- 
ing — that oft in the chilly night — old Dan Tucker was a fine old man 
— and so is our John Spring — but what shall we say of our own John 
Bird, whose voice rings out, like the nightingale's clear, to tickle the 
drum of the Wm. goat's ear — and Mort Thomson sings, as he only can 
sing — bye baby, bye baby, bye — for practice is perfect, and why 
shouldn't he — like the colts of the pasture, so wild and free — and 
Johnny Hensler, in shrilly squeals, sings my business is rap-a-ta-tap on 
the wheels — but he tapped so hard that he broke the machine, that 
ground out this article brilliant and keen, and the blamed old thing 
went all to smash, just as our office was entered by W. H. Nash — and 
T. J. Kightlinger came and demanded the rent, and it took from the 
office the last red cent — so we sit here and mourn like the Whang- 
doodle bird, and our heart by the tones of that organ is stirred — and 
a chunk of emotion rises up in our breast, and our readers are saying 
— oh, give us a rest. 



322 HUMOROUS 



A Dead Language 

We have beard it whispered that the City Council have an idea 
that Dr. Hensley has tried to slur that potent body of men. If this 
surmise be correct, we venture to say that more than likely the good 
Doctor has sinned more through ignorance than intention — that is, 
we suspect that the Doctor failed to realize what a mighty "Sanhe- 
drim" the council is. The Doctor is accused of sending in a report 
to that august body, couched in one of the dead languages. He no 
doubt supposed that a board that could not smell the dead matter 
around Andy's slaughter house, would not object to a well preserved 
corpse or two from the dead languages. But it seemed he was mis- 
taken; the board determined to preserve the official dignity, are com- 
pelled to draw the line somewhere and they decided it should be 
between dead hogs and dead languages; hence they made a vigorous 
official kick. The council is right, and we think that when the Doctor 
sees the naked and hideous enormity of his offence, he will put some 
ashes on his head, wrap a gunny sack about his loins, and retiring to 
some secluded spot, scrape himself with a piece of a broken pitcher. 

Death of the Sandy Sow 

Died, at its late residence on Monday, July 25, 1892, the Sandy 
Sow, after a checkered career of two years. When the Sandy Sow 
was born it was given the euphonious soubriquet of "The Blue 
Goose." It was an organization of men who saw nothing to do in 
the world about them, and in order to kill time and escape from the 
presence of their families, they banded themselves together in this 
organization. The first symptom of decay was seen when the by-laws 
were so framed as to forever prevent our worthy postmaster from be- 
coming a member, or even entering the charmed circle where kindred 
spirits held daily sessions. After this the building which gave the 
name was sold, and the iconoclastic hand of progress razed it to the 
ground. Slowly and sadly its members climbed the stairs at the Kobert 
Shelton room and read their doom in the setting sun. But even then 
the members were faithful, meeting daily, nightly, and at least twice 
on Sundays. Death came with silent tread, and with relentless hand 
stilled the throbbing heart of youth and age in Yates City, and still 
the Sandy Sow missed not a sitting; the laughing infant leaped and 
crowed in the young mother's arms, but still the daily session knew 
no opposition; the sweet toned evening bell rang out its gospel invi- 
tation each returning Sunday night, but still the light shone brightly 
from the few clear spots in the dust-covered windows of the Sandy 
Sow. Never but once did an event occur to break up a sitting of the 
members; that was at the time of the terrific storm, one evening last 



HUMOROUS 828 



summer, when nature's warring elements contended in desperate strife, 
when winds were cyclone born, when thunder peals shook earth's 
foundations firm, and lightning zig-zag rent lowering cloud, and 
seemed to show the hand of doom writing on the murky wall of heaven 
the fate of man. We have the authority of Andy Alpaugh that on that 
night of dread and fear the members of the Sandy Sow fled affrighted 
from the place, leaving puddles of tobacco juice upon its floor, and 
deck but half shuffled and still uncut lying on the table, and fled as if 
the old arch fiend were just behind, and reaching out to seize them as 
they fled. The Sandy Sow never fully recovered; and when, a little 
later, some one so far forgot as to hint the 'Squire had made a mistake, 
its fate was sealed, and so it declined until its veriest friends did shake 
their heads and say, ' ' the Sow will die. ' ' And so it did ; and on that 
Monday morning its features paled, breath came short and hard, eyes 
closed, muscles relaxed, and Charles Coy-kendall laid silver pieces on 
its eyes, wiped a moisture from his own, and said : ' ' The Sandy Sow 
is dead." 

Song 

Monday night a party of "lads and lassies" were out pouring 
forth their souls in song. They woke us from the first refreshing 
slumber of the night, and we thought for a time that we had reached 
that heaven where all the good editors will sit on the front benches, 
and we might have remained under that same delusion had not the 
young ladies struck up that soul-lifting, sublime and inspiring song : 

"Where, Oh! where is my little dog gone, 
Where, Oh! where can he be; 
With his ears cut short and his tail cut long. 
Where, Oh! where can he be." 

One of the reasons that has reconciled us to the idea of exchanging 
this for another and a better world was our faith in the belief that 
no dogs could ever enter there, no matter whether their tails are short 
or long, and we began to think that a mistake had been made in our 
case, and even imagined that we could detect the faintest odor of brim- 
stone ; but when fully awake we were glad to know that we were still 
on terra firma. (This last phrase is used by permission of the author, 
J. D. Truitt.) But we can testify that there is a wonderful uplift in 
that grand and noble song, when the sweet, melodious voices of inno- 
cent girlhood warble it out on the eleven o'clock p. m. zephyrs, and 
it floats in through the wire screens that keep the low-lived flies out 
of the humble cot that one calls home. A very melody is it, a sym- 



824. HUMOROUS 



phony, a diapason, expanding into the cerulean blue of the star- 
gemmed skies like a new revelation. 

"With his ears cut short, and his tail cut long 
Where, Oh! where can he be." 

There is a mighty power for education and elevation in a few 
"purty" girls the ennobling words of the song from which we have 
quoted, and the solemn stillness of the starry night, just at that witch- 
ing hour when the hands on the dial plate of time indicates 11 p. m. 

A Swell Affair 

One young man wore his tight-fitting, spike-toed shoes to the pink 
party Monday evening and it proved a very swell affair to him. He 
went home with his "Dulcina," and as there was no train to his town 
before morning he stayed all night. In the morning his feet were so 
swollen that the spike toes fit too soon, and it was afternoon before 
he could get them on. His girl began to fear that he contemplated 
joining the order of Barefooted Monks, instead of the Benedicts, as she 
was wishing he would. 

Stolen Sweets 

Last Saturday night, when the sun had sunk behind the distant 
hills, darkness had settled over the throbbing city — hushing it until 
nary a throb was visible to the naked eye — a party of four couple, one- 
half of whom were girls of the female gender, got into Wm. H. 
Houser's grape patch, with the evident purpose of distending their 
diaphragms with the luscious grape. But alas, scarcely had the fair, 
sweet young creatures stowed a half dozen grapes under their corsets, 
when the sound of Houser's voice, "Nearer, clearer, deadlier than be- 
fore," in a whoop that would have been the envy of the "Noblest red 
man of them all," fell on their ears. The four couples went; there 
was a wild rush for the fence, four bustles bobbed like the nodding 
plumes of warriors "Of ye olden times," there was a confused min- 
gling of brogan and dainty slipper on either side the top board of the 
fence, a show of calves that would have been a drawing card at a 
county fair, a patter of "Willing soles" on the walk, as "Their flight 
they ply," while "Shout, and groan, and Houser's cry, was maddening 
in their rear," It was an auspacious time. 

Must Retract 

We are in receipt of a postal card from our old friend J. H. Whit- 
aker, congratulating us on our (?) poem (?) in this week's issue of 
the Farmington Bugle. We have always considered J. H. a humorist 



HUMOROUS 325 



of the first water, but we think he carries the Joke too far. No ! No ! 
Joe, we are not guilty, and you must retract or prepare for the 
"Golden Shore," as we intend to bear down on your avoirdupois; and 
we will be armed, too; we have a Krupp gun, two small cannon; a 
"boss pistol," a Toledo Blade, a buck saw, a corn knife, a flail, a 
claw hammer, and a gimlet a la Sam Piester, and so, Joseph, you might 
as well settled up your worldly affairs. If there were extenuating cir- 
cumstances, Joseph, we might point you to a faint glimmer of hope; 
we would wish to spare you for the sake of your loving wife and prat- 
tling babes; but we have read that poem; and with our right hand 
on a pile of Democratic platforms and our left grasping Hayes' veto 
of the funding bill, we have sworn a terrible swear sixteen feet long, 
that you must hand in your chips. 

Mr. Aley Goes West 

And now by the halidom of all the kings, but sorrow wraps us 
about like a mantle, and shuts us in, like a young duck in a coop, and 
we mourn even as the whangdoodle mourneth for her first-born, and 
all because the best judge of drug store whiskey, Electus Aley, has 
departed from the city, shook off as it were the dust of his feet against 
us, and departed for Kansas, where he has sworn a great swear that 
he will spend the remainder of his days with his son. Hie is an old 
man, bent with the weight of years, and he totters leaning upon a 
cane, but he is one of the landmarks that will be missed from the city. 
Ah well: 'Tis ever thus. In the language of the poet: "Coming 
events cast their hind legs before." And we expect to ever find it 
thus. Just when we believe that we have anchored fast to a kindred 
mind, death or removal comes and snatches us bald headed, and leaves 
us alone like a lodge in a cucumber patch, or a pelican in a wild duck's 
nest. Thus the good leave us, and we are left to wiggle along at our 
task, much like a large ant tugs at a big grain of corn. 

In Justice to Barnhill 

Some son of Balial put us up to state that Mr. Barnhill got into 
trouble with his horse while raking hay on Sunday. We are now sat- 
isfied that it is an attempt to slur a great and good man. The fact is 
that Barnhill is such an example of religious godliness that his neigh- 
bors have become jealous of his scantified piety, and they are throw- 
ing mud and rocks, and sticks at him, and trying to trip up his heels, 
and in divers and sundry ways to make life a burden to him. We 
have interviewed Barnhill, and are confident that he is head and 
shoulders above his fellows, besides curling hair a la Absalom. He 



326 HUMOROUS 



wishes us to put at the head column this statement: "I have known 
people to get rich minding their own business." "We are sorry that 
the top of the column was engaged before we saw Mr. Barnhill. If 
there is one thing that delights us in this vale of tears it is the oppor- 
tunity to set a good man aright. Alas ! It is impossible but that 
offenses must come. You might just as well expect a bear to climb a 
tree backward or pull a black snake out of a briar patch with a crooked 
stick, as to expect that editors will not be imposed on or men like Barn- 
hill be reviled. After looking at the matter we feel like saying in the 
language of J. D. Truitt, Rosa et chulenebar Barnhillabus rex. 

Molar or Incisor? 

On Wednesday night of last week, we — that is, the editor of this 
Great Moral Pendulum — caught a cold; none of your small, shriveled 
up, scrunty kind of colds, but a thoroughbred, full size, 57 yards to the 
bolt, warranted alike on both sides, fast colors, full 36 inches in width, 
and twilled on both sides. It slyly crept down the spine of our noble 
frame, penetrating our anatomy from capillary to toe nail, making 
us feel meaner than a disappointed office seeker ever looked. It finally 
located what seemed to be a permanent claim on our right side, and 
began to act as if it intended to prove up as soon as it fulfilled the 
requirements of the most approved land act. It also loosened the bark 
on us and caused it to peel off in great chunks. Well, we had just 
made up our mind to let the cold have that side, and we be a martyr — 
a la Dr. McGlynn — when that sneaking cold went over and took a 
homestead claim on section sixteen, third tier of counties from the 
south line of our left jaw; like a swarm of bees it entered a hollow 
stump ; that stump kept us lively ; we sat up with it in the night, late 
as any young fellow with his girl, but — judging by our somewhat dis- 
tant recollection of such a time — we did not have as much fun; if it 
took a notion to go about the room we went too ; we have been keep- 
ing it company all day; our face is all down to one side, like a mis- 
placed bustle, and we closely resemble a man who has called a larger 
and stronger man a liar. Like the old sailor, we do not know whether 
this tooth is a molar or an incisor, but we know just where it is 
located. The old sailor went to a dentist to get just such a tooth ex- 
tracted; the dentist asked if it was "a molar or an incisor." The old 
sailor replied: "Weather my mizzen if I know which; but it is in the 
upper tier on the larboard side, and I want you to get a marline spike 
and bear aft, for the son of a land lubber is nipping away at me like 
a lobster." And that is just what ails us this blessed moment, and 
this article must close. 



HUMOROUS 327 



It Wasn't True 

Some wise man has said that "truth travels like a snail, not pooty 
fast, while a lie runs as fast as Jack Spickard. " The wise man might 
have added that "a wild hoarse rumor grows with a rapidity equal to 
that of Jonah's gourd, while a fact grows no faster than does Chillis 
Bird." Be this as it may, there was a wild hoarse rumor in town this 
week. It took root on Saturday, when John W. Bird arrayed himself 
in gorgeous raiment, putting on his clear buckled harness, and made 
a bee line for Knoxville, where the aforesaid rumor whispered his Dul- 
cina lived and loved, and added further that after enjoing the Sabbath 
in her blissful presence, he would reach Galesburg on Monday, and 
there he would forever leave the ranks of the celibates, and become a 
benedict, a veritable head of a family, and, perchance, in time become 
one of the fathers of the town. No sooner did this wild hoarse rumor 
get abroad than excitement ran rampant. The editor of the Banner 
declared that he would refrain from lying until John had come home 
and he had wished him joy, provided it was not over 24 hours. Billy 
Woods resolved that he would not put a dead rabbit off on Jim 
Hensley from now, henceforth and forever, if it should prove true. 
George Broadfield said that he — if he was sure it was so — would be in 
half a notion to renounce allegiance to Queen Victoria. M. S. Jordan 
said if it should prove true it would be but another evidence of the 
superiority of Professor Hicks as the only reliable weather prophet. 
John Hunter said "by dev" but if John Bird was really married he 
would be almost willing to see the next jackpot raked in by the other 
fellow. Milt Beardsley declared that it so rejuvenated his old frame 
that he believed he could live two whole days without tasting that 
medicine which his infirmities had made necessary for the past 18 
years. George Slater said that he believed he would just show how 
generous he could be, and he would treat John to one dozen assorted 
peanuts. Andy Alpaugh said that if it proved true he would lose 
all faith in Hiram Abiff. Bill Butler said it so demoralized him that 
he forgot to start a fire in the "Blue Goose" until almost noon. Baz 
Bevans declared that if it was so, then General Palmer would be 
elected if he got the necessary number of votes. Steve Boyer said 
that in honor of John's nuptials no more stale rain water should be 
put in the alcohol barrel, and wiggle tails would be a reminiscence. 
David Corbin said he would not play cinch on the evening John 
brought his bride home. The foreman of the Banner office said if John 
was really married he would try awful hard to drive a team hitched 
to a sleigh out to Beal's without having the lightning strike the sleigh 
and tear off two braces. Nig Golliday said he believed he might now 
work three consecutive hours at a time, while Jim Truitt said: "With 



328 HUMOROUS 



Fortiter in re I shall forego the Furor loquendi, the Furor poeticus and 
the Furor scribendi, for horrible dictu, humanum est errare, and in 
foro conscientia if I have John's ipse dixit I would almost be willing 

to a honorarium" There is no telling where this might have 

ended, but at this point John returned to Yates City all alone by him 
own self, and his presence soothed the excitement just as rubbing lin- 
seed oil on a mangy pup has a tendency to stop his scratching his left 
ear with his hind foot. We hope that John will not do so any more, 
for it came near upsetting the gravity of the entire town. 

"Maud Muller" 

Thousands of people have been delighted by reading that sweet, 
strong, beautiful poem by John G. Whittier, entitled "Maud Muller," 
and many have grown wiser from its perusal. Who, having once read 
it, can forget the picture of the rustic beauty of the country girl in 
torn hat, singing as she raked the hay. The song ceases ; she is leaning 
on the rake and glancing over at the far off town, and the vague un- 
rest comes to her, a nameless longing for a better lot in life ; the judge 
rides slowly down the lane ; he halts in the shade of the apple tree 
to greet the girl; he asks for a drink from the bubbling spring; she 
fills her little tin cup and presents it, blushing as her eye takes in her 
feet so bare and tattered gown ; he thanked her ; he talked to her of 
the grass, the flowers, the trees, the birds, the bees, the haying, the 
clouds, the weather ; he won the girl, who forgot her briar-torn gown, 
and her graceful ankles bare and brown ; the judge rides on ; the trans- 
formed girl sees a vision of what might be her's if she were his bride; 
the judge looks back from the hill at the girl, and realizes the beauty, 
the grace, the wisdom, the nobleness of the girl, and wishes she were 
his ; but a vision of his vain mother and proud, cold sisters came to him, 
and he rode away; he wedded a rich woman of fashion and failed of 
happiness; she married an ignorant galoot who smoked a short pipe 
and drank beer out of a rusty tin cup, and was just about as poor as 
the average editor, and Maud drudged, and moiled and hankered after 
the judge all her miserable life. 

A Dandy 

A God forsaken looking circus outfit pitched a forlorn tent on the 
commons, in the city, Friday morning and turned out a few old knock- 
kneed, spavined, ring-boned, halt and blind cripples, that they were 
evidently using as a substitute for horses, to contest with the vora- 
cious town cow for the rag weeds and thistles on the vacant lots. The 
few dirty looking rascals who lounged listlessly about the tent were 
low-browed, flat-pated, hollow-eyed, wide-mouthed, bandy-legged, big 



HUMOROUS 829 



footed galoots, whose complexion is a cross between a frost-bitten 
pumpkin and a brindled steer, and on whose every lineament nature 
had written fraud. The band music that they made agitated the air 
like dozens of harrows moving over a gravel bed, and their per- 
formance would have made the most ardent desire for life turn to 
an intense longing for instant death before the first abortion they 
tried to pass for an act was half over. A few hailstones fell on the 
tent during the afternoon, the purest, the sweetest, and most heavenly 
visitants they ever had, but too much like an editor to be at all profit- 
able. On Saturday morning they whistled up the old rack-a-bones, 
folded the bedraggled tent, got the dirty galoots perched on the 
creaky wagons, the drivers wrapped the lines around the front stand- 
ard, greased their elbows, spit on both hands, raised a few welts on 
the patches of hide that still hung on the bones of the sorry cuddies, 
and the "greatest show on earth" was slowly on the move for Farm- 
ington. 

Good Deacon Philbee 

Deacon William Philbee brought us a sack of cherries — a small 
sack — not nearly so large as the one J. A. Hensley weighed our dollar's 
worth of sugar in — that sack was not small. The editorial ash barrel 
fell to pieces, and Mrs. McKeighan was worrying over what she would 
do with the ashes; we told her to get that sugar sack and scoop them 
in, and she did ; she then was in a fret because the sack was only half 
full ; but we told her that we had 21 loads of wood bought for next 
winter, and we believed that there would be ashes enough to fill the 
sack, but she looked incredulous — women are so apt to doubt and 
worry — and then we asked her if she couldn't turn a good part of 
the sack down, same as Jim did when he tied up the sugar, and she 
said yes. But the deacon's cherries were good and — so is the deacon — 
but he can not help being good. The fact is that Philbee is a philoso- 
pher, and a prophet, that is, a weather prophet, and while nearly all 
his predictions fail of verification, he evens things up making a new 
one. He has dug into all the weather lore extant, and is as familiar 
with meteoric changes as a printer is with pica quads. He has mas- 
tered gingseng root, calamus root, polk root, briar root and the root 
of all evil ; he has studied the ground-hog, the muskrat, the hog-melt, 
the goose-bone, corn husk and the tree toad ; he knows the sun, planets, 
stars and astriods, and is onto all their paralaxes and equinoxes with 
the same aptitude with which the sweet girl graduate tackles interna- 
tional problems. Only the moon puzzles Philbee. Philbee 's moon is a 
peculiar cuss ; one month it is far north, and the next away south ; one 
time it lies squarely on its back, the next time it is prone on its 
stomach. If Philbee 's moon is correct, then were it small wonder that 



330 HUMOROUS 



the poet has put this language in the rosy lips of the young man's 
best girl when he was about to affirm by the moon that he would 
set up the ice cream if he lived to get to Jack Kightlinger's Hotel 
American the next Sunday: "Oh, swear not by the moon, the incon- 
stant moon that changes like the policy of President McKinley. " No 
wonder that Philbee's moon is not to be depended on. But in all these 
others he is rooted and grounded, and we have ample grounds for 
asserting that he is a good man, chock full of the milk of human kind- 
ness and without any guile. 

A Materia Medica Experiment 

David Corbin is a noted veterinary; he is trying to cure a bone 
spavin on his horse by putting him on a diet of dandelion. Dave has 
discovered — or at least thinks he has — that bone spavin is correlative 
with magnum bonum, and co-ordinate with lymphatic negrocology, and 
is superinduced by failure of the kidnioid gland to properly suppurate, 
thus permitting chalk deposits on the inner part of the hocuspocus or 
hind leg joint, which, coming in contact with ozone, crystallizes into 
fibroid calcareous or bone spavin. Hence, it is obvious that the kidneys 
are at fault, and dandelion, operating on the kidneys, hits the disease 
squarely on the solar plexus, knocking it galley-west. The medical 
world is watching the experiment with a great deal of gravity, and 
Dave thinks he is on even a higher kopje than he was when he in- 
vented the gooseberry picker. 

Bill George 

The only Bill George, he who lives and caters to the inner man 
at Brimfield, came over in two loads, in a buggy, Wednesday morning, 
whacked up the kopecks for the exclusive right to eat and drink all 
and sundry, the men, women and children who may come into the 
school park on the tenth day of August, to attend the Big Harvest 
Home. This does not mean that Bill is a cannibal, for he is one of 
the most mild-mannered men that ever sliced a ham to make the 
deceptive but alluring sandwich. Bill is rotund of form, and, like all 
fat men, the juices of good nature bubble in his veins and mellow his 
entire system, and he is so built that he delights in feeding any living 
man who has — money to pay for the grub. If Bill's corpulent frame 
does not attract your attention his voice will ; it is basso profundo, and 
was intended to be a compromise between the sound of a foghorn and 
the devilish screeching of the Elmwood fire whistle. Bill called on us 
and hinted that we might mention him, and we have — the fact is we 
have grown wide of girth mentioning people gratis but this is not this 
character of mention; we expect that when the eventful day comes 



,!* j 



HUMOROUS 331 



that Bill George will seek us out in that great multitude, drag us up 
to his pie counter, and compel us to eat a meal equal to the one that 
the good 'Squire J. A. Hensley ate out at Bill Johnson's the night he 
officiated at the marriage of Bill's son to Miss Hoget. 

Baseball Fans 

It was just too funny to note the actions of some of the staid old 
citizens on Tuesday, the day our baseball club went up to play with 
the Williamsfield boys. W. C. Series happened to choose that day to 
visit Williamsfield in order to establish a blackberry trade ; L. A. Law- 
rence happened to remember that he had pressing business at the old 
Moses Wheeler farm — close to Williamsfield — and up he posted ; Smith 
Rhea took a sudden notion that Williamsfield would be a grand place 
to sell the "History of the Johnstown Flood," and he hired a horse 
and rig and up he went ; Pet Thomson concluded that if any live man 
knew just where a cannon ball, if fired north from the platform of a 
car attached to a train moving at a speed of one mile per minute west, 
would be when the car was one mile from the point where the cannon 
was fired, that man lived close to the depot at Williamsfield, and off 
he posted ; Milt Beardsley just made up his mind that if there were 
any good looking young widows in Illinois they must be near Williams- 
field, and of¥ he went pell-mell ; D. M. Carter thought no man could be 
a storekeeper in the revenue service if he had not been to Williams- 
field, and so he just thought he would go up on Monday or Tuesday, 
but happened to go on Tuesday ; the good 'Squire T. J. Kightlinger has 
a farm up north, and fearing that the velvet weeds might need trim- 
ming, he went up, then finding that the moon was not just right, he 
went on up to Williamsfield and — of course — was surprised to see the 
boys there ; Peter McFarland just accidently heard that the boys 
were going, and fearing that some of them might get to monkeying 
with the drug store at Williamsfield, he went up to see that they all 
kept straight. The next morning they were all back home looking as 
innocent as a pet kitten. 

A Chicken Story 

The chicken is a nice fowl. It is a profitable thing to have about 
the premises. Fried chicken is an appetizer that has few equals and 
no superior. The right to own, have and control chickens is one that 
pertains to all women and some men, but chickens are mostly the 
property of women until they are sold, when the husband generally 
pockets the money, reluctantly handing his wife a quarter. This right 
to own chickens is inalienable, is secured by international law, has 
been admitted by Theodore Roosevelt, acquiesced in by J. D. Truitt, 



832 HUMOROUS 



and clinched by the decision of so eminent a jurist as 'Squire J. A. 
Hensley, and we admit it without argument. But we believe this right 
extends only so far as the premises of the owner is under his jurisdic- 
tion and control by reason of purchase, rent or lease. Now the owner, 
renter, or lessee has the right to let his, or her, chickens run on premises 
so controlled, but beyond this line his, or her, chickens become trespass- 
ers on the domain and rights of others. To state the case plainly we 
believe that no man, nor woman, has any right, inherent or acquired, 
to let their chickens get into the gardens, lots, or premises of another 
person. 

From our experience we judge that some of our neighbors do not 
coincide with our particular views on this subject. We regret this. 
There are chickens to right of us, chickens to left of us, east of us, west 
of us, north of us, south of us, and they are a nuisance to us and vex us. 

We have tried to kill some of them, but unfortunately time has 
laid his leaden hand on us, and our feet are not nearly so nimble as 
they were in the days when we made a record in getting out of peach 
orchards and watermelon patches that some considerate man in the 
neighborhood had planted and tended — as we then thought — for the 
special benefit of boys. The fact is that in those earlier years we 
imbibed the pernicious doctrine that a beneficent Providence intended 
peach orchards and watermelon patches, turnip fields, etc., for the sus- 
tenance and development of boys who, at that early date in the history 
of Illinois, were not overly fed in the primitive homes of the pioneers. 
Of course we have since repudiated our former belief and at the 
present time — our age being now 72 — we would under no consideration 
molest a neighbor's peaches or melons — for we doubt our ability to 
outrun the owner, if he discovered us and gave chase. 

This physical deterioration was emphasized last Monday morning, 
when we gave chase to a flock of chickens that were trespassing. We 
also discovered that age had dimmed our eye, and that our hand had 
lost its cunning in throwing, for though our failure to kill one or more 
of those chickens was complete, it was no fault in our intention, nor 
was it any lack of persistent perserverance, for we pursued them even 
to the premises of the owner. It will be well for the owner of these 
chickens to persuade them not to explore the country too far from 
home, for we are still seeking revenge, and we have read in the scrip- 
tures something about renewing our youth like the eagle, and if it 
comes true in our case, we would not give a tinker's cuss word for 
the lives of those same chickens, for our determination to commit 
suicide on these fowls is writ in large letters and in indelible ink. 



HUMOROUS 888 



McGinnis et al 

Last Friday George McGinnis of Peoria, was in the city looking 
after the circulation department of the Peoria Daily Transcript. Once 
on a time, George, was a shining light in the newspaper world, in his 
native town of Princeville, where Joey Barnum helloed from the office 
of the telephone, and where B. J. Beardsley afterward bellowed, and 
swelled up and — bursted. Here, too, Paul Hull, that lankest and queer- 
est specimen in the newspaper ornithology of the great state of Illinois, 
once sat with both his legs on one side of the tripod, and got so sacri- 
legious as to turn up his elongated smeller at the Pope, and sneer at 
his faithful followers, which so incensed the Corkonians and their de- 
scendants dwelling in Peoria county near to Princeville, that they 
entered the place where Hull published his paper, and when he came 
to the office in the morning he found the type scattered on the floor in a 
promiscuous pi. This so vexed Paul Hull's righteous soul that he 
scraped the clay of Princeville from his boots and went to Chicago and 
got a job of reporting on one of the big dailies, and made a truthful 
report of some big fashionable social function, when a corpulent police- 
man lit on him and smote him hip and thigh so that Paul was in a sad 
plight for many days, but he recovered, married a beautiful and tal- 
ented young lady of Brimfield and lived happily ever after. All of 
this rushed through our dome of thought when George McGinnis, in 
company with D. M. Carter, came in to call on us, and we felt that fate 
had dealt kindly with us, and we proposed to George that we unite 
in singing "And Are We Wretches Yet Alive," when Carter suddenly 
remembered that he had an appointment to meet a man, and George 
said he had to make a train, and both hurried out. It was too bad, 
and they missed something really fine. 

The Editor Visits Maquon 

On Wednesday afternoon we were perambulating the streets, hav- 
ing grown desperate for lack of important events to record. Nobody 
had died; but few got married; everybody was sober; not a man would 
get mad enough to fight; no one broke a leg; not a horse could feel 
frisky enough to run off ; even the mules forgot to kick ; we could hear 
of no one going with another fellow's girl; everybody seemed virtuous 
and happy ; man and woman seemed indifferent as to whether Maquon 
made a good showing in the census of 1880 or not, and so there was 
not even the poor comfort of noting how crazy some man had acted 
all because a new arrival had appeared at his house, with ten chances 
to one that it was either a girl or a boy. No wonder we were in a 
desperate state of mind. In fact we were meditating the hazardous 



334 HUMOROUS 



experiment of getting Shaffer to tell a fish story, or get Maple stirred 
up on some scientific subject, when we saw Charles Hamrick sitting on 
a hitching rack, looking as innocent as a butting sheep. As we came up 
he ejected a quid of tobacco and said carelessly, "It was Cy's son, then, 
who came." Our massive ears began to spread out like the sails of a 
merchant ship, we yanked out our Faber and note book, and guile- 
lessly asked, Cy. who? "Why," he said, with a peculiar twinkle of 
his eye, "Cyclone." Then we suddenly remembered that a heavy 
storm had just passed, and we went off sad as a yearling mule that 
had kicked at a spring pig and missed it, and felt in the capacious re- 
cesses of our pocket to see if we had a nickle with which to hire a stout 
man to wallop us until we would have as much sense as an idiot mud 
turtle. But the nickle was "nix," and so we just resolved that the 
next time we catch Charlie in Yates City, we will waylay him and 
treat him to the best cigar for sale at the Banner Hotel. 

The "Devil's" Fiddle 

The imp who holds high carnival in our office, is a versatile genius ; 
he is not so rich in experience as some, but that is owing to the fact 
that he is not so old as some. But he has crowded as much into the 
short space of his life as possible. He first cut his teeth ; then he fell 
on an earthen jar, and cut through one of his lips ; then he got a bean 
fast in his nose, and scared his mother into a young geese fit ; then came 
the regular order of chicken pox, scarlet rash, measles, mumps, earache, 
scratches, itch, stone bruises and school fights ; he survived everything, 
and about two years ago he became affected with a musical eruption 
that broke out on him in spots as large as a blanket. He got a set of 
bones and rattled them till every one within seven blocks was about 
crazy ; then he got a jewsharp, and pounded it till he produced a felon 
on his finger; then he got a French harp, and broke all the tumblers 
about the place practicing on the gamut ; at last he took a soul longing 
for a fiddle. He struck a trade with a music dealer for a superb article 
that the dealer assured him was worth seven dollars. He sawed on it 
for a week or two, making a sound much as if one should draw a stove 
poker across a barbed wire fence. It took $6.17 to purchase strings-, 
keys and bridges for it the first three weeks. At this point we rebelled, 
and threatened to make an assignment, if any further demands were 
made on our finances. Then the imp got sick of the fiddle, and tried 
to trade it off. No musician would touch it ; one tune attempted on it 
was enough for any timid person. He had traded off nearly everything 
about the place, but this proved to be a sticker ; but he persevered, and 
last week he came across Andy Condrey, and as the bridge was out of 
the fiddle, he traded it off for an old revolver with no spring in the lock. 



HUMOROUS 886 



We have a chunk of sympathy three rods square, for Andy's family 
and friends. In the meantime the imp has our wife and oldest daugh- 
ter treed under the table half the time, for fear that in some unaccount- 
able way, the old revolver may depart from its usual custom, and go 
off. 

An Epidemic 

For some time there has been premonitory symptoms that the fish- 
ing fever would make a clean sweep of ail, both old and young, in 
Yates City. For a long time Henry Soldwell made a brave fight, and 
we had hoped that he would escape with a slight attack, but it was not 
to be so. Postmaster J. A. Hensley is subject to such spells, and he 
would as soon think of giving up the postoffice as to forego a fishing 
trip. Smith Rhea has had the fever so often that it has become chronic, 
and he does not even hope to entirely escape. C. A. Stetson has the 
disease in a peculiar form. Sometimes one might suppose that he did 
not have it at all, but when the rest break out with it bad, he just goes 
off with them. So last Wednesday they hied them off to the winding 
spoon and spent the entire day in hobbling the cork. It is said that C. 
A. Stetson would have escaped the fever entirely had it not been for 
Deacon Philbee. But when he heard Philbee tell of catching a wagon 
load of fish in half a day, each of which weighed from twenty-five to 
forty pounds, he just broke out in spots, and go he would. We had 
seriously considered the advisability of borrowing a clean shirt and 
getting a couple of barrels of fish ourselves, but we feel it is now too 
late, and so we will wait until some of the young fish grow up. 

A Missionary 

0. W. Wren went over to Elmwood Wednesday and spent the 
entire day in arduous but pleasant missionary work. They do publish 
it in Gath, and tell it openly in Ascelon, yea, and also in the sea ports 
adjacent thereto, that Oscar has found the sweetest and nicest little 
heathen over there that he has ever met, and that her smile is winning 
and cute, and that the tent hooks of her affections have laid firm hold 
on the cords of his heart, and the tendrils of her love have scaled the 
heights of his anatomy and wound themselves about him "like sea 
weeds round a clam," and that he has sworn a great swear that no 
stone will be unturned to change her — name. It may be that these be 
but vile slanders, but if not then we say "Bully for Oscar!" in "Ses- 
quipedalia verba," which being translated into the vernacular of the 
common herd, means, "Words a foot and a half long." 



336 HUMOROUS 



Not Mentioning ISTames 

Monday a couple of young gents came over from Farmington and 
called on some of Yates City's blooming belles. One of them was a 
great big, long, short, slick, slim, slender fellow, and the other was a 
short, thick, slim, slick, tall, wide fellow. They became so intoxicated 
with the loveliness of our girls that turning the corner at Spickard's 
new house, they both fell out in the snow, "kersouse"; the reason was 
plain, as all may see, for the horse turned "haw," while the boys went 
"gee," and the sleigh went up like a busted bank, while down in a 
drift the two boys sank; the heels of the one stuck out of the snow, 
but his head was down six feet below ; the other lay prone, like a man 
with a jag, and clutched in his hands, were the lines on the nag ; while 
on Wesley's stomach, so trim and neat, lay the great big stone that 
had warmed their feet; but the stone rolled away, like the one of old, 
and the boys stood up in the keen, bitter cold ; and they righted the 
sleigh with their fingers numb, and they said, "Ah! the editor! keep 
this mum." But Carrie and Maggie were watching them still, and 
Thirza was laughing just fit to kill ; and Mettie she put us right on to 
the job, for what "devil" ever could hold its job; so we got our 
machine and started the crank, and it ground out this article raw and 
rank. 

Goats 

The latest addition to the town is two William S. Goats. Some of 
the boys declare that the S. stands for smell, while others are positive 
that the S. is an abbreviation for stink. Like all other important scien- 
tific questions, this has adherents for both theories, and, as this paper 
has some subscribers in both factions, it hesitates about taking a 
decided stand for one or the other. But we make bold to announce 
that the goats are here. They are not to the manor born, but were im- 
ported from Galesburg, and we will mention, in confidence, of course, 
that they do not stink as offensively as an editor who resides there. 
Indeed it is doubtful if the good people of that educational center will 
ever miss the William S. Goats, while so many other smells remain. 
But this is a digression, and, like those who write thrilling tales, we 
apologize for it. Speaking of tales reminds us that these goats have 
short tails, which leads us to conclude that they were not furnished by 
Ned Buntline or Mrs. D. E. N. Southworth. No; these tails are 
modeled on a different plan, but no doubt are useful to the goats, and 
we doubt if they would trade. These William S. Goats are dark brown 
in color, their legs grow down, or did until they reached the ground, 
and their tails turn up like an aristocrat's nose. Still they are not 
exactly like an aristocrat, for these goats will M^ork in harness, and the 
true aristocrat refuses to work anywhere. 



HUMOROUS 887 



These goats have beards, and their brainpan is small, resembling 
in this respect many of the other citizens of Yates City — of course we 
speak now of the beards. They are kept at the livery stable, and may 
become useful in some way, but we fear that they will never play 
croquet, for while they have the beards and the heads, they have no 
hands, and are not able to talk — at least not in the vocabulary of the 
arch. 

But perhaps we had better make this article like the goats' tails, 
short, or we may say something for which the goats may ask us to 
apologize, which would not be so strange, as other goats have done 
the same thing. 

Tom's Stunt 

T. J. Truitt may not be Cincinnatus or Burpee, and he may not 
have originated as many horticultural species as Burbank, but when 
it comes to the stunt of making the small, barren desert under the 
bandstand blossom as the rose, Tom is a whole team, with a "yallar 
dorg" trotting under the wagon, and a tar bucket dangling from the 
reach. Tom has metamorphosed that bleak, bald, arid spot into a 
botanical garden, and people bless him, and he has caused the latent 
pride of the average "Yates Citizen" to arouse itself and, like a bob- 
tailed rooster on a rickety hen roost, to be looking up. Tom's artistic 
beauty spot has made every loyal citizen feel that a crisis has arisen, 
and emulation gluts itself again, and other hideous nooks about the 
city are being hoed and raked, planted and tilled. "Tam 0' Shanter" 
became famous by arriving home on the mount of a mare with an 
abbreviated tail, but our Tom will be loved — not for the enemies he 
has made — but for the flower garden that he made. One beautiful 
young lady, while attending the band concert, last Saturday night, 
became so enthused over the beauty of Tom and his flower garden, that 
she came to the editor and sweetly whispered "Say, can you tell me 
whether Tom Truitt is married or not?" As she turned to cross the 
street we thought that Tom's personal liberty is in jeopardy, but we 
realized that all our people love him and say of him, "For he loveth 
our city, and hath builded us a garden." 

We'll Apologize, And We Won't 

There were some things in the Banner last week that some took 
exceptions to. One was the notice in regard to David Corbin's new 
method of treating bone spavin, and the other was the head of the 
article in regard to the re-employment of the teachers, which read, 
"The Same Old Corpse." We have decided to apologize to the teach- 
ers, because there are four of them, and they are all robust and strong, 



388 HUMOROUS 



and we are afraid of them, and we will say it was a typographical 
error (all editors slide out that way) that escaped our proof reader, 
and to make the apology "more betterer," we are willing to add that 
if we have done anything that we are glad of we are sorry for it. 

But as to the Corbin article, we flatly refuse to apologize. The 
reason is that Mr. Corbin is old and quite feeble and though we think 
that he can whip us, we feel confident that we can outrun him — if we 
are scared, and we are. We wrote that article with malice prepense 
and aforethought, and with the intent to commit mayhem, and we did 
it because Mr. Corbin 's potatoes have grown faster than ours have, 
and we are jealous, and we get revenge in this way, and we will add 
that if we have said anything about Corbin that we are sorry for we 
are glad of it. 

"Oh, Dem Peaches 1" 

Just why any one should plant peach trees so close to the street 
fence that people can reach them, is more than we could ever tell. But 
they do it ; it is a temptation that few people can resist. There is just 
such a case in this town. The other night two charming young ladies 
were out promenading, and they saw the luscious fruit, and their 
mouths watered for a taste of it. And, like the mother of all living, 
they resolved to risk all in order to eat of the forbidden fruit. So 
they timed their return so they thought the old man who owns the 
peaches would be in bed, and then they slipped up, got on the fence, 
and reached for the coveted prize. But alas ! The old gent was up to 
snuff, and he was lying close to the fence, and just as one of the 
charming girls said, "Oh, here's such a nice one, I must have it," the 
old man said, "No, you don't," and grabbed her by the ankle. She 
was somewhat surprised, and both girls lost all appetite for those 
peaches, and left that locality with celerity. Now, we wish to say 
that we do not blame the young ladies. We have long ago doubted 
whether the recording angel marked down stealing peaches against a 
boy, and we are sure he does not in the case of good looking girls, and 
both of these girls are good looking. More than this, we doubt if we 
could have gone right by those peaches without trying to get some 
of them, and we only give this item in order to show — what must be 
apparent to the most casual observer — that the old man just planted 
those trees there, and has waited all these years, just to get a chance 
to grab a pretty girl by the ankle. Oh, you naughty man ! And then 
to think of the example ! Why, every old codger in town will be 
planting a peach tree close to the front fence. 



HUMOROUS 



Smith Gets His Dinner 

W. T. Smith, the Galesburg attorney, who is sometimes profanely 
called Bill Smith, arrived here on Christmas morning, and walked out 
to the home of his parents, Ira and Mrs. Smith, several miles north of 
town, hoping to get there in time to put his feet under the table, and 
get some of the bread and pies "like mother used to bake." The 
train on which he came was an hour or two late, and W. T. looked 
"lean and scraggy," and we think that after he hoofed it the matter 
of six or seven miles, his front room would be entirely empty. But he 
was resolute, and putting a linen handkerchief over his ears, he let 
slip the cable, weighed anchor, ported the helm, turned the prow 
toward the frozen north, "strake sail and let her drive," and the last 
look w^e had of him he was hull down, latitude 74, longitude 91, with 
Jake Lehman's on the starboard side and well astern, and the speed 
of the craft being apparently from 16 to 18 knots, with the wind nor' 
by nor 'west. 

Mule vs. Duck 

Ben Mahon is a gay and festive granger who is pretty sure that 
he has the best looking wife and handsomest baby in Knox county. 
Ben is a rustler, and gets up and comes whether it rains or shines, is 
hot or cold. He drives a span of very small mules that seem scarcely 
larger than a couple of ordinary jack rabbits. Mrs. Mahon had raised 
gobs of poultry, and had a load of ducks to spare. Andrew Jackson 
Donelson Coykendall, Esquire, now in the employ of that eminent sci- 
entist, A, Alpaugh, better known as Alpaugh the wise, tempted the 
women with the promise of many tomans, to bring the ducks to town. 
Of course Ben was called on to become a common carrier — as it were — 
and he hitched up the mules, loaded the ducks, and turned his gallant 
steeds on the road to Yates City, and was soon lost in deep thought, 
in regard to what excuse he would make to his wife in order to borrow 
the money when he got back. All at once the mules remembered that 
they had not run away that day, and they struck out at a speed that 
bade fair to leave the record of Maud S. nowhere. The sled was not 
made for such work. It broke ; Ben got spilled, so did the ducks. Ben 
caught the mules — after they took a notion to stop — gathered up the 
rig, secured a few ducks — the rest are scattered along from Yates City 
to Summit — and came into town, wondering how so much of old Satan 
could be wrapped up in so little mule. The next time these mules 
start to run we advise Ben to jump in between them, pick one up under 
each arm so their feet will be off the ground, and then they can't run. 



340 HUMOROUS 



In Days of Yore 

A number of years ago a party of fishermen went out to the 
classic and winding, yea, and shady and treacherous Spoon, and gave 
the fish the worst scare of their lives. If we remember correctly Squire 
Hensley, L. F, Wertman and R. B. Corbin were in the party, and we 
know that they had the bait in a two gallon jug, for the Squire wanted 
to label the jug coffee, but Corbin said it would be no use, as fish bait 
smelled much alike. Wertman insisted that a bottle was the best to 
carry bait in, but Corbin said that everybody could see just the kind 
of bait then, and that a jug was the proper thing. That the fish were 
badly scared is evidenced by the fact that the fish hid so securely that 
none of them were caught, although the bait was all used. Wednesday 
this incident was recalled when we met R. B. Corbin with 94 yards 
of line, 171 hooks, a pair of waders, 7 pounds of cheese, 11 links of 
sausage, 1 loaf of bread, and 3 circular canteens, that he said were for 
water, and an Isaac Walton look that boded no good to the finny tribes 
that are supposed to swim in depths and shoals of the sinuous Spoon. 
We asked him if Hensley and Wertman were going, and the old man 
shook his head and said no, that neither of them were fishers, but— 
and here his voice was a mere whisper — "Mc, those two men had the 
greatest capacity for bait of any I ever met." If this notice doesn't 
entitle us to a fine channel cat on the return of Corbin, then will we 
be tempted to say that the race is degenerate, and that the rich juices 
of generosity have acidulated in his system. 

A Vision Fades 

One week ago last Friday we were called on to act as attorney 
for John McCarty in a suit against James Rodgers, growing out of a 
horse trade. On that momentous occasion Attorney J. L. Welles, of 
Maquon, got away with us, prostrated our legal frame in the dust, 
got astride of our Blackstone neck, and pinned us down to the floor 
of justice. Our client at once got out the papers in proper form for 
a new suit which was set for last Thursday at 10 o'clock a. m., before 
His Honor, Squire J. A. Hensley. We were all ready for this legal 
fray ; we had the right side, we had the law, we had the evidence, and 
we ached to make a legal slide out of Welles; we intended to ride 
him bug hunting, and pretty effectually absquastulate him. But just 
as we saw the bright light of the sun of victory resplendent over the 
top of Kimbler's stable, and we were sure that we were about to 
grasp the: 

"First captive lean and scraggy, of my legal bow and spear." 

our client failed to put in an appearance, and the suit was dismissed 



HUMOROUS 341 



at his cost, and thus another bright vision humped itself out of our 
sight. 

February Suggestions 

February has opened, and we think it a good time to give our 
granger friends some advice. We have had some experience in farm- 
ing; we worked at the business until we were busted so flat that the 
sheriff could find nothing to levy on; we didn't have a red cent left, 
nor a cent of any color that we remember of; then we went into the 
journalistic field — and have held our own splendidly. Some men lack 
our experience in farming, but our advice is worth more than we 
made farming. If things are permitted to run loosely on the farm 
in the month of February, there will be a loss. Keep things neat and 
tidy; see that the hired man does not do chores in his bare feet; we 
don't think Polled Angus fowls give such rich milk in February if 
fed by a barefooted hired man ; then it looks bad to see the hired man 
oiling the spindles of the bob-sled barefooted. See that the children 
take a parasol when they go out to see the innocent lambs elevate 
their hind legs on the greensward ; for the sun is getting closer, and 
there is danger of sunstroke, if not tanning. If you notice any blos- 
soms on the Richmond cherry trees pinch them off; we are satisfied 
that larger and better flavored cherries are obtained by not permitting 
the blossoms to remain on the trees over night in February. Don't 
pick and can your mammoth strawberries this month ; of course, the 
temptation is great, but we have never seen a good can of mammoth 
strawberries that was picked and canned in Knox County in Feb- 
ruary. Young turkeys should be weaned this month, and not be 
allowed to suck the dam longer; it is this reprehensible practice — in- 
dulged in by slip-shod farmers — of permitting young turkeys to suck 
in February that causes pin feathers, and brings disgrace on reputable 
breeders of this quadruped. Be careful to keep young chicks out of 
the potato patch, eating potato bugs in February is a prolific cause 
of gapes in chicks, and is sometimes fatal to the flock. Young goslings 
should be provided with good high roosting poles, as sitting on the 
ground makes them web footed, and gives them a waddling gait. Feb- 
ruary is the best time to cut the tail off shepherd pups; don't be afraid 
to cut high enough ; the nearer you cut to the pup 's neck the better — 
for the community; we have never known a single case of a pup's 
tail freezing in July, if it had been properly cut off in February. An- 
other advantage is, if a shepherd pup's tail is cut off in the light of 
the moon in February, the stump will never sprout. It might be well 



342 HUMOROUS 



enough to prevent the hired girl from loafing on the front gate later 
than 11 o'clock p. m., unless she wears a large caliber bustle, for the 
damp, soft, humid atmosphere of these lovely February nights is con- 
ducive to the development of brain trouble. 

His Happiness Incomplete 

We are in receipt of a letter from P. N. Wood, he who erstwhile 
lathered the faces and manipulated the hirsute covering of the cra- 
niums of the ab captandum vulgus, in Yates City, and whose legal logic 
astonished even the learned and erudite 'Squire Hensley, while his 
masterly eloquence captivated the learned savants who congregate 
about the city hall, and mashed the susceptible hearts of the coy dam- 
sels who had not previously become mashed on his shape. This letter 
came last week, struck us amidships, careened us on our beam ends 
and left us wallowing helpless in the trough of the sea. You see the 
letter took us like old Sammy Etnire's wedding. He was a widower, 
and 73 years old ; he went to Ohio and married a girl of twenty ; when 
he got back home he said the event "tuk him unawares." That is 
just how this took us ; it has doubled us all up in a heap. We gather 
from F. N.'s epistle that he is in Decatur ; that he worked on the Peoria 
Freeman until that metropolitan sheet had downed all its contempo- 
raries, and then he vaulted the tripod of the Peoria National Democrat, 
and paved the way for Kentucky's favorite son to walk into the Peoria 
postoffice, and then he went to Decatur, where he is booming the 
town with a great and terrific boom, and is as happy as a mud turtle 
in a swill barrel. The only fly in his ointment is the fact that he does 
not get to read the Banner. "His children are about him, his wife is 
before him," and by the stars that spangle the blue dome above and 
blink in the vast immensity of space, we shall send him a copy of our 
Great Moral Pendulum, so that he may seat himself in his easy chair, 
elevate his pedals on the center table, and bask in unalloyed bliss. 

Lies 

We are informed that a dear old lady who lives in the country, 
saj^s that we print lies in the Banner. We are of the same opinion, 
and we are sorry we are not able to keep mis-statements out of the 
paper. Sometimes we print lies just for fun ; then again we print them 
by mistake ; again we print some on account of the total depravity of 
the editorial heart ; sometimes we print them because other people ask 
us to do what they are ashamed to do themselves ; then we get ten 
cents a line for printing some, and it is hard for a poor, ignorant, de- 
spised, starving editor to refuse to do that which a well fed, educated, 
honored business man promises to pay him for. Sometimes we print 



HUMOROUS 343 



them to screen our friends, and then again to demolish our 
enemies; but the great reason we print lies is because peo- 
ple will forgive us when we print lies about them, but if we 
tell the honest truth about them, they will never forgive us, never! 
Never ! ! NEVER ! ! ! If the dear old lady whose ire has been kindled 
against us, will but consider these various temptations to which we are 
constantly exposed, the tendency of the poor miserable cuss of a coun- 
try editor to go further in the way of unmitigated meanness than even 
his master, the devil, could wish, we hope her judgment may be tem- 
pered with mercy, and that when she spreads the ample folds of her 
silk dress over her cushioned pew, arranges her commodious bustle in 
becoming style, puckers her pretty mouth to proper sanctified shape, 
and proceeds to thank the Lord that she is not as other people are, nor 
even as this lying editor, she will permit us to stand afar off, smite 
our empty stomach and say, "God be merciful to me a sinner, and 
remember in the last great day, when 'the wicked are turned into hell, 
with all the nations that forgot God,' that we have been there ever 
since we have published a paper." 

Heels vs. Heads 

The pedal extremities of some of the high school pupils seem to 
be regarded by their parents as the most important part of them. 
We, therefore, conclude that the old cuss who placed himself on record 
by declaring "That the head of man is the most important part of 
him," committed a grievous error, in fact was somewhat adle-pated, 
and laid himself liable to the charge of being non compus mentis. 
Perish the thought! What a lamentable mistake our Yates City 
teachers have been making in trying to polish the heads of their 
pupils! Like Achilles, these pupils are vulnerable only in the heel. 
It must be patent to the observer that the teachers have been in error, 
and have tackled the wrong end of their subjects. It is suspected that 
educational tactics will have to be revised. Education, to accomplish 
results, must lay siege to the brain citadel, must surmount every ob- 
stacle, overcome every barrier, and plant its triumphant banner on the 
objective point of the campaign. If that point be the heels, let no one 
falter in the charge. If brains indeed have settled in the heels, then let 
the teacher, too, descend to the level of heels, discard the obsolete text 
books of higher aims, seize the twanging fiddle, impress the asthmatic 
piano, beg the assistance of the dulcet toned crossroads caller, put 
rosin on the soles, and upward lift our sons and daughters to the 
sublimer heights by educating their heels. And why not? The wise, 
when error, stripped and bare, stands out to view, no longer allegiance 
yields, but discards it when reason invites to what would seem the 



344 HUMOROUS 



safer, better plan. Is it not clear as day that if these noble scions of 
our homes ever honor their illustrious forbears, it must be that they 
will have to glide, slide or stride into some prominence? Can this be 
done upon their heads ? Not on your tintype ; the absurdity of it is as 
plain as a bump on a log, and sticks out like a sore thumb. It might 
chance that a son might slide upon his head, but imagine our lovely 
daughters sliding for the home base of success on their heads ! Nay, 
verily, it may not, must not be. But the heels! how admirably they 
fit into the sliding business like a stocking on a dog's nose, adapted to 
it as well as if they were banana peels on a cement sidewalk. We 
wish to be on the popular side, and just now the heels are in front — 
of course this is a figure of speech — and are getting there, Eli, with 
both feet, and we are pleased to note that some of the more progressive 
parents of Yates City are ignoring the fanatical yawp of bigoted teach- 
ers who can see nothing but heads to children, in face of the fact that 
the feet of some of them are as well developed as their heads ever will 
be, and are permitting their young children to cultivate their heels, 
apparently satisfied that if the heels get there they will carry the head 
with them. 

Bee-ware 

The eye of justice came near being closed Wednesday morning in 
Yates City, thus giving a clear track for revolution, riot and bloodshed. 
It all came about by 'Squire J. A. Hensley confiscating for his own use 
the summer's wages of a stand of bees, just at a time when the chilly 
evening zephyrs reminded the said bees that new overcoats were in 
order, and that their pants and socks didn't meet by at least a couple 
of inches. After brooding over the matter awhile, one poor little under 
sized bee was appointed to convey a pointed remonstrance to the 
erudite 'Squire. So when he emerged from the house looking as though 
he had enjoyed his feast of bread and honey, that bee made for him. 
J. A. immediately placed himself on the defensive, keeping his guard 
well up. The bee sparred cautiously for an opening, or a chance to 
make one. Short jabs were exchanged, the round ending with honors 
even, and the 'Squire a little groggy. The second round opened with 
some lively infighting. J. A. sent in a vicious left swing but missed, 
the bee ducking cleverly and coming up smiling. The 'Squire thought 
he had it all his own way and became reckless, when the bee, quick 
as a flash, made a vicious jab with his business end and deposited the 
remonstrance, at least the pointed part of it, directly below the off 
eye of his adversary. It was a clean knock-out, and caused the eye 
of justice to close for repairs. J. A. says there were 17,000,000 bees 
after him, but this version of the mill comes from an eye witness, and 
we incline to the belief that it is the only correct one. 



HUMOROUS 345 



An Outing 

On Monday the Jaqiiiths, the Smiths — some of them — the Aleys, 
the Rogers, Miss Jarbo, et al, hied them to the banks of the historical 
Kickapoo, and on its classic banks, beneath the umbrageous trees, 
played croquet and pic-nicked, just as if the soulful John Downs had 
never tuned his 'liar' on it's verdant banks, nor the noble red man 
splashed his spud toes in its placid puddles. It was fun; of course 
the industrious ant played baseball on their luncheon, and the fiddling 
cricket meandered gracefully along the alabaster neck of the Yates 
City belle, but all the more the sport was hilarious. When the sun 
began to sink in the west — a habit with him — they scrambled into 
sundry vehicles and arrived in the city in due time, to wipe the per- 
spiration from their brows, and dig the impalpable dust from their 
ears. 

A Drop in Temperature 

One week ago last Monday morning. Tall Slimbuilt, who resides 
in the east part of the city, got up early ; he had been dreaming of 
pansies, mignonettes, sunflowers, and such; but as soon as his bare 
feet touched the floor, a polar billow swept up the small of his back, 
large enough to diffuse itself over his whole frame, and then feel 
around for some more frame to spread over ; pimples of goose flesh 
covered his body until his epidermis looked like it was second cousin 
to the steps of an iron stairway; he rushed down stairs and opened 
the door, but no scent of fragrant flower came wafted in ; not a single 
waft ; instead, old Boreas struck him with a blast that made him think 
the north pole had moved down, broken off, and a quarter section had 
hit him kerslap ; not a bird warbled in the branches of the cotton- 
wood over in his neighbor's yard; the birds seemed to have staid at 
home, or at least had closed out their stock of warble at a reduced 
rate in order to make room for a spring stock; not a robin was to 
be seen; not a bluebird was in sight; even the blackbirds had closed 
out at the old stand and were gone. He listened until his ears were 
white, and smelled until his nose was blue as a whetstone, but the 
only fragrance (he is not a member of the city council), he detected 
arose from Andy Alpaugh's slaughter house, and the only music was 
the harsh, grating sound of Sam Conver's horn, as he struck the 
first notes of "Only a Pansy Blossom," with the same vim, the same 
energy, the same determination, and with about the same success that 
he struck it two years ago. Then Tall Slimbuilt went to the porch, 
took a wild look at the thermometer, saw that it indicated 13 degrees 
below zero, turned sadly into the house, slung his linen duster in the 
closet, hung his straw hat up on the corner of the kitchen floor, kicked 



346 HUMOROUS 



a palm leaf fan under the safe, fell over a rocking chair with both 
arms up to the elbows in a tub of rinse water, got up and bawled 
out at the open stair door, "Say there, Marier, where in thunder have 
you poked my woolen drawers? Blast my buttons if the old world 
hasn't been knocked into the middle of next winter." Then he 
sauntered around behind the table and stood gazing intently at an 
old calendar for 1881, that his wife had hung up for a splasher. 

A Fake 

There was an outfit here Tuesday night with what purported to be 
a liver medicine. The team was beautiful, the songs old as the hills, 
the gags moldy chestnuts, the musician's voices sounded like a paper 
mill tearing rags, and the orator — well, he was the same old man, 
that went into the army at the age of 13 years, marched boldly to the 
front, seized the Southern Confederacy by the nape of the neck, lifted 
it resolutely and firmly from the earth, and shook it until its toe nails 
dropped off. If our memory serves us correctlj^ he is the seven hundred 
and fifty ninth different man whom we have heard tell the same story, 
and so far as we can determine he told it just as glibly, and with as 
much apparent sincerity as any of the others. The night was chilly, 
but the entire town was present, men, women, and children, including 
babies — the only ones not present being twenty who were holding a 
prayer meeting in the Presbyterian church, the editor who was obliged 
to work that night or starve, and one other prominent citizen who 
had gone to bed early — of course he was not aware of the street show — 
in order that his wife might wash his shirt. Those Avho do not wish 
to read this item — which we admit we dashed off on the spur of the 
moment, and which may not be all correctly spelled— can just read 
the heading, which is a short, concise and truthful statement of what 
the medicine street show really is. 

The Hidden Light 

Anton Schoenberger is a staid and sober citizen of the town. His 
locks are fast bleaching with the suns of age, and his natural strength 
has somewhat abated. He was a soldier in the late war, and after 
having fought bravely through all its bloody contests, and after white 
winged peace had folded her pinions, he enlisted in the regular army, 
and fought the Indian braves from Dan even unto Scoot-Horn. Here 
he met Sliding-door, Hole-in-the-Sky, Drippin-Fat, Young-Man-Afraid- 
to-Wash, Old-Man-Who-Is-Not-Afraid-to-Steal, and a host of other 
renowned but dirty and loud smelling savages. In this war he fell into 
almost every hole in the "Bad Lands," while his horse fell over almost 
every hummock. At the close of his term of service, he returned to 



HUMOROUS 347 



Illinois, stuck a potato on the end of his sword so that he might not — 
in a moment of forgetfulness — do injury to some fat denizen where he 
lived, hung up his canteen as an heirloom for future generations of 
Schoenbergers, decorated the lapel of his coat with 49 different decora- 
tions, married a wife and settled down to the peaceful pursuits of rais- 
ing onions and babies. In addition to this he became a shoveler on the 
Q. construction train, where he worked six days and on the seventh he 
would remove the beards from the faces of his comrades. At length 
there was a city council elected whose president was a man of vast 
power of discernment, and the promoted Schoenberger to be city mar- 
shal and street commissioner, in which dual capacity he wore a star, 
carried a revolver that never could be coaxed to go off, buried dead 
dogs, chased recalcitrant gamin, and mended the sidewalks. But at 
last "there arose a King who knew not Joseph" — or, as this case is, 
Anton — and so he laid down his club, took pff his star, hung his 
revolver on the bedpost, and was a private citizen, except that he had 
charge of the G. A. R. hall, and here is where he got left. One night 
last week he came down to open the hall, carrying a lighted lantern, 
and accompanied by comrade Kleckner — he of Orange Daniels fame — 
and wearing a long tailed overcoat. As he opened the door the tail 
of the coat flapped in the breeze and fell over the lantern, Schoen- 
berger looked all around, and not seeing a light he said to Kleckner: 
"I must go back and find my lantern; I had it when I left home, and 
must have set it down somewhere." Kleckner asked him whose lantern 
he had in his hand, and it was then that a smile as large as Philbee's 
feet broke over his countenance, and he was ready to set up the 
cigars. 

Imposing on Generosity 

Last week we stated that we were willing to give part of one 
month's income to pay Orange Daniel's claim for $5,000 damage 
against our G. A. R. boys. Just as soon as it became known that 
some rich and responsible person was willing to pay the demand, one 
Booth bobs up and puts in for another $5,000. Now Jacob Lehman 
says that this is an attempt to take the larger share of our entire 
income for a month. We believe he is correct. Of course we could pay 
the $10,000, but it would take about one-third of our month's income, 
besides establishing a precedent that would make it possible for our 
entire income to be ultimately absorbed in the same way, to say nothing 
of the inconvenience of living on the remaining $20,000 ourselves. We 
now give fair warning that there is a point beyond which we will not 
go even to make life pleasant for Daniels, Booth, et al. If we were a 
bachelor we would pay the entire bill, but we have a wife and family, 
and there are demands that even a newspaper can not accede to. 



348 HUMOROUS 



Burglary- 
Saturday night the light fingered — and light footed too, for that 
matter — visited the city. They entered the home of R. A. Lower, 
cutting out the screen, hoisting the window, and propping it up with 
a stick cut from a plumb tree. Once inside they passed through the 
sitting room, took Mr. Lower's pants from the bed post, returned to 
the kitchen, took $1.20 in change that was in the pocket, left the pants 
on the floor, took all the cooked victuals, and departed. 

They also entered the house of H. J. Truitt in the same way, but 
the door was bolted between the sitting room and the kitchen, so they 
contented themselves with the contents of the cupboard. 

Their credit for sanity would have been good had they left town 
now, but they did not. They went to the home of editor A. H. Mc- 
Keighan, cut a sprout from one of his Poland China peach trees, opened 
the south kitchen window and stepped in. They went through the 
sitting room, took the editor's pants, went to the kitchen, laid a 
pocketful of letters on the floor, put the composing rule, the make-up 
rule, the office key and a stub pencil on the sewing machine and 
covered them with a small white handkerchief, took 73 cents, and left 
the pants on the floor. They then took the piece of beef that had 
been secured for a Sunday dinner, took the salt and the pepper off 
the table, took our only pair of shoes, and left us alone in our glory. 
Some people wonder how we had so much money in the house, and 
we feel that some explanation is in order: That night we took ad- 
vantage of the darkness to slip up on a delinquent, and got a dollar. 
That is how we had the meat, and the 73 cents. Then another man 
asked us why we did not hide the shoes. It must be that the inquirer 
never saw those shoes. Hide them! Great Scott, man ! They couldn't 
be hid. We do not expect the burglars to be captured, for our theory 
is that they have sailed for Europe in one of the shoes. If this article 
is cribbed by the London times, and meets the eye of the proper parties, 
we wish to thank them for their consideration in not waking us up. 
Sam Knox had a stew-kettle stolen that same night, and Rev. 
Parsons lost his chicken. At Lower's a buckskin sack containing $17 
lay on the floor of the bed room, and $35 in bills was under the pillow, 
but they did not get it. Miss Mary Lower's gold watch was on a table 
in the sitting room, but was not taken. 

The House of Thomson 

It was said of a celebrated Scotch family "The Campbells are Com- 
ing," It is the Thomsons who are now forging forward for furious 
fray. And it is the particular house of L. A. Thomson that is now in 



HUMOROUS 349 



advance. Some old coot of a writer prated about "The fair haired 
daughter of the house of Brunswick." He had no prophetic glimpse 
of the fair haired daughter that came to the house of Thomson, last 
Saturday, or he would have cheesed his racket e'er he had begun. 
"Talk about your Moses;" rave over the first born of Egypt, and 
go into ecstasies over ancient and modern babies : Nature has been 
experimenting for more than six thousand years. ' ' Trying her 'prentice 
hand," as it were. The culmination of the perfection of babies took 
place at Thomson's on Saturday. The mother and child and L. A. are 
doing nicely; but don't ask L. A. to discuss politics; he isn't in it; he 
is studying the analysis of paregoric, and going through a calculus 
to demonstrate that this particular baby will cut its wisdom tooth at 
an early age. Here's our congratulations; and if our wishes and your 
expectations meet their fruition in the little "tot" she will be more 
renowned and wonderful than "Helen's Babies." 

A Bad Law 

Last week there was a rumor that a schoolma'am in one of the 
adjacent districts had resigned her position with the intention of get- 
ting married, but that the boss director — there is generally a boss 
director in every district — had refused to pay her for the time taught 
unless she would complete the term for which she was hired. It may 
be possible that the school laws of Illinois are a bit crude and old fogy. 
It may be that no provision was made for a clause in the contract with 
a schoolma'am that in case she found an opportunity to get married, 
that she should have the privilege of quitting, that she should receive 
wages for the time already taught, receive the benediction of the full 
board of directors— this latter ceremony might be just after dinner — 
and be permitted to marry the man of her choice. If it be true that 
the law is thus defective, we are here to say that the law should be 
amended at once. 

And now that we think of it, why is not this the golden op- 
portunity for "Jim Put," of Elmwood, who by the mysterious and in- 
scrutable workings of Providence, and the vote of a majority of his 
constituents, was elected to the state senate. Jim is a widower, young, 
brilliant, talented, handsome, rich, ambitious, and with a tongue 
pivoted in the middle and loose at both ends. He will want to intro- 
duce a bill, and we suggest that his bill be one for securing the in- 
alienable rights of schoolma'ams, by so amending the school law of the 
state that in every contract made between any duly elected board of 
school directors, and any unmarried schoolma'am, there shall be a 
clause permitting her to close the school at any time, providing she 
has a chance to get married. Such a bill would make Jim solid with 



350 HUMOROUS 



all the schoolma'ams in Illinois, as well as with anyone who wished 
to marry a schoolma 'am, and would give an efficiency to the female 
teacher that must be otherwise lacking. What schoolma 'am can do 
good work while aware of the fact that while she is boosting the young 
ideas up the tree of knowledge that her first, last and only chance to 
enter the double harness trot may come, and that some cruel school 
director may put before her the awful choice of losing pay for one 
month's labor, or going without a man? There is indignation in the 
air, and the dear, sweet schoolma'ams are lisping, in the language of 

the poet: 

"Can we get men, and be thus handicapped?" 

A New Stove 

That the influence of this Great Mora Pendulum is still large has 
been shown by recent events. Last week we published a short article 
in regard to the renewed interest being taken in the Yates City school 
and no sooner did it appear than the school board rushed off and pur- 
chased a great large new stove for the grammar room. This so upset 
"Chillis Bird," the teacher, that he rushed into this office Saturday, and 
executed a war dance that would have made Ah-Shig-Pu-Bah-Sing-Low 
green with envy. We do not censure him for this exhibition of feeling. 
That old stove was long past its usefulness. It was on the superan- 
nuated list before the advent of M. S. Jordan as a groceryman. There 
was no more heat in it than there is in a wagon load of ice, and it could 
gas with the volubility of a politician. It was like the darkey said 
about the broken pump handle, "It am neither ornerymental nor use- 
ful." Chillis had become so disgusted with it that it haunted him in 
his dreams, and one night he imagined that it came into his room and 
sputtered and smoked and gased until he woke up glad it was only 
an ugly nightmare, for he actually began to think that he had gone 
in search of Andre, and was sitting on the jutting crag of a glacier 
eating ice for breakfast. We are told that a few Sunday nights ago 
Chillis dreamed he was hugging that old stove, and by all that's sacred, 
the truth is he was not hugging a stove, but — Avell what we wanted to 
say is that we are real glad that he has the stove, and we feel sure 
that he will teach better, and that the scholars will study harder 
in the genial warmth generated by the new stove. 

An Editor Falls from Grace 

We are sorry to see that our good Bro. editor, S. P. Wood, of 
the brilliant Farmington Bugle, has at last gone wrong. We have 
admired him in the past as a shining example of goodness, virtue and 
morality, and in the stillness of the weird, wanranchie, creepy mid- 



HUMOROUS 851 



night hour, when good men slept, and baby prattle was hushed in slum- 
ber deep and still, and the tired toiler's resonant snore rattled the 
windows of adjacent blocks, and the old maid had swathed her aching 
jaw in camphor, and dreamed of childhood's rosy time and youthful 
chances long since past, we have tossed on restless couch, and specu- 
lated if a wretch like we, so prone to err, so long on evil deeds, so 
short on good, and withal, so consummate in hiding truth away, could 
hope for harp and crown. Then would a vision come of Bro. "Wood, his 
white sombrero, his mustache dark and curled, his face so like an open 
book that all might read, and then a hope would come and we would 
grapple it, and make a firm resolve to linger near the pearly gates 
and watch and wait until they swung ajar for him, then would we take 
a tailholt on his coat, and thus sweep through. We knew him honest, 
doubted not his goodness, and thought him truthful until last week 
in the Bugle he stated that one Williams, sold 80 hogs that averaged 
1380 pounds. Ah! Bro. Wood, why tell so great a whid? Is truth 
a knave to masquerade like this? Or have you fallen from grace, and 
drank again of "Bully Dandy?" 0, Brother! we admonish you to 
come to Yates City with haste ; we know a man whose girth is wide, a 
good man, modest and quiet in all his ways, who never sleeps — except 
it be in church — and who has never told a lie, one so prone to looking 
up to higher things that even "his failings lean to virtue's side," the 
good Squire Hensley of the Regulator; we'll intercede with him, and 
peradventure he will take us, one under each ockster, and touch our 
feet upon the golden streets. But say, Bro., don't make the hogs too 
large ; 500 pounds or so might do, but over a lie of such outrageous 
avoirdupoise as 1380 we weep tears as large as hulled walnuts. 

The Woes of William and John 

J. W. Wood, Jr., is engaged in fitting up a house that he recently 
moved to a lot he has on west Main street. He was preparing for the 
plasterers, and John Newlin was assisting him. Mr. Newlin is an ex- 
pert engineer, and as Captain of a sawmill he is hard to beat ; and Mr. 
Wood knows the hardware business from A to Izzard. But neither 
of them ever belonged to the Lime Kiln Club, and both were a little 
bit slack in the matter of slacking lime. At first Billy insisted that the 
proper way was to get a wire stretcher that he had at the store, and 
he knew that it would yank the slack, out of anything. John told Bill 
that he never would slack lime that way, and that he thought the 
proper caper would be to get a hawser, attach one end to the lime, 
hitch a traction engine to the other, and jerk the slack bald headed. 
Just then the good Deacon Philbee came along on his way to make a 
weather forecast for next winter, and he said both were in error. He 



352 HUMOROUS 



said the only proper way was to get a gallon of pure bear's oil, and 
rub one quart on the barrel containing the lime; but as pure bear's oil 
was hard to get he suggested that they procure a box, put the lime in 
and pour cold water on it. They got the box, put in two barrels of 
lime instead of one, and put on some water. It was only a minute 
before things got very interesting. The lime rose up and seemed 
determined to spread all over the city. The smoke began to go up, 
while John and Bill were frantically clawing the sizzling lime with hoe 
and shovel, while their eyes stuck out like a jack-rabbit's, and great 
drops of sweat hung tremulous on their noses. After some time Billy 
said that he was satisfied that Ingersoll was mistaken about there being 
no hades. "Why, John, don't you see that if the devil had a few 
barrels of lime and some water he could furnish enough hades to sizzle 
every soul that refused to repent when Bybee preached at the M. E. 
church?" But the lime got hotter and hotter until Billy declared it 
was worse than the day the republicans had their election, and he 
began to think it was a judgment sent on him for palming off a dead 
rabbit that he found in the hedge, and which had been dead for two 
months, on Jim Hensley, when Jim beat him shooting at a mark 
years ago for the rabbits. Just at this juncture Dave Corbin came 
along, divided the lime and thus taught Billy and John how to slack 
lime. 

Joe Just Rested 

A tall young man, wearing a pale and intellectual cast of counten- 
ance, came into the sanctum where we manufacture the lubricating 
oil for the Great Moral Pendulum, and in a tremulous voice requested 
us to ask Joe Maxwell if he didn't think an icy porch a soft place to 
sit down. We must respectfully decline, young man ; in the first place, 
Mr. Maxwell is a large and muscular granger, and might go off when 
we didn't suspect he was loaded; in the second place he pays us two 
dollars per year, good and lawful "kopecks" of the realm, for a copy 
of our Great Moral Pendulum, and said princely portion of our mag- 
nificent income might be cut off in the entail ; in the third place, Joe 
might cause us to sit down on the office floor a good deal harder than 
he sat down on the icy porch. If ever the expectant public finds 
out that Joe sat down solid on the icy porch the individuals compos- 
ing that public will be obliged to read some of the common cheap 
country sheets that deal in personalities. No such inquiry will be 
permitted to appear in these columns while the Great Moral Pendulum 
swings at our beck. 



HUMOROUS 353 



Dr. Royce's Hound 

One day last week we met a great measly, sore eyed, lean, sneak- 
ing looking specimen of the canine hound on the street running at 
large. On inquiry we were told that it is the property of Dr. W. T. 
Royee. We are loath to believe this, for we have had a good opinion 
of the doctor; and if it prove to be true we shall still try to respect 
the man. But we will say that a man may call us a liar with immunity ; 
he may spit in our face and still cumber the earth until the snow flies ; 
he may tweak our nose and still linger to chew the juicy end of spare 
ribs that are yet being utilized by his hogship in his anatomical struc- 
ture ; he may accuse us of causing the death of our first wife and still 
not taste angel's food before Christmas comes; or he may even state 
that we have taken the home paper and got six months behind and 
still he may not die suddenly. But there is a point beyond which no 
man can go and live, so we don 't wish any person to start a report that 
we own a single hair even on the extreme end of the villainous look- 
ing caudle appendage of this cantankerous cur. 

A Chicken Foundry 

Andrew Jackson Donaldson Coykendall, Esq., has erected, built, 
put up and caused to be constructed a commodious house in which to 
pick poultry. Here will the proud gobbler cease to strut, and the 
spring hen be ruthlessly separated from her great grand children and 
be forced to lay by her well worn toggery, and here will the venerable 
old red rooster crow his last crow — that rooster whose faithful and 
cheery crow has woke the horny palmed tiller of the soil from the 
slumber of the just for the last seventeen years — will be denuded of 
his spurs and will masquerade in Chicago as a spring chicken. And 
here, too, will the festive chicken louse navigate to the extreme end of 
Jackson's nose, and speculate whether there be, in all the range of 
louse knowledge, such, another human proboscis. 

Nothing Much to Do 

This office has labored under slight difficulties the past week. 
Friday of last week Frank Carroll, the gentlemanly and efficient fore- 
man of the office, was taken down with the measles, and, of course, 
was not able to be on duty. This left us to be "Monarch of all we 
surveyed, and we tell you it was no limited survey. We have been 
editor, local typo, solicitor for ads, reporter, foreman, pressman, folder, 
mailing clerk and devil; we have expostulated with the spring poet 
who insisted that his production was none to early, stood off the 



354 HUMOROUS 



express messenger, answered dun letters, chased delinquent sub- 
scribers, kept out of the way of the man who insisted that his bill 
should be settled, mollified the man who said that we were putting in 
too many ads, soothed the subscriber who swore that we had turned 
democrat, argued with that other one who was sure we are a 
republican in disguise, tried to show another that he was wrong in 
his opinion that we are an Alliance man if not a latent anarchist, 
apologized to those whose names were spelled wrong in our last issue, 
swept the office — ^yes, we will make an "Affidavid" to this last state- 
ment in case it is required and some one will furnish the necessary 
twenty-five cents — wrote letters to all sorts of people on all sorts of 
subjects, carried in coal, fed and curried a horse, took care of a coop 
of fancy chickens, attended church and done many other things too 
numerous to mention here now. It is fun, pure fun to get out a 
paper under such circumstances. There may be a few mistakes, but 
we do not see how it could be possible; we may have neglected some- 
thing, but we are certainly to be blamed if such be the case. 

A Reformer 

The newspaper man is nothing if not a reformer. This is where 
he gets into trouble ; if he could be content to just state that Mrs. 
Replenishtheearth was the mother of another boy, and Mrs. Increase- 
thecensus had fallen heir to a diminutive angel in the shape of another 
girl, that old Fussy was one of the pillars in the church, and Mr. Itch. 
F. Place, the best man for position; yes, if the man who sits astride 
of a tripod, could only be content to tell squash lies at thank-ee-sir 
per lie ; or spend half a day of his valuable time writing up a history of 
Mr. Brassface's brindle bull, asservating that he (the bull) had been 
imported, and that he had no doubt traced his progenitors to the 
sacred bulls, that used to wake the emotional love of the nude and 
dirty savages, even as the eyes of the peach-down maiden raises the 
tender and green — oh, how green! — school boy's; and then use the 
bull story "just to fill up, you know," the editor man might live at 
peace, and die so thin in flesh that he might be wanted for a skeleton 
the day of his death, and on the morrow be doing duty behind the 
door of some man holding a state license to kill people. But the 
trouble is the average editor is an ambitious cuss ; yes, even in poverty 
he is aspiring ; what he would be if fed three times a day no one can 
tell; but if he would soar higher on three meals, it would seem to be 
a wise provision of Providence that he has never been able to get 
them. The fact is a tripod is an elevated seat, and the poor devil who 
is obliged to sit on it has even a chance to witness the contortions of 
the "common herd," and sees so much of their shams and pretenses 



HUMOROUS 855 



that he catches a desire to reform people just as naturally as a school 
girl falls in love, children catch the itch, or boys gravitate toward mis- 
chief, and he tackles them with a desire to remedy wrongs. Here is 
where our trouble comes; when we lay our esteemed friend Andy 
Alpaugh, across our editorial knee and apply the shingle of reform, 
he howls like a burnt Beagle, and kicks like a bay steer; when we 
simply state that our worthy fellow citizen, John Brimmer, has de- 
molished his enemies with the same weapon with which Samson is 
reported to have routed the ungodly Philistines, John elevates his back 
a la the irate Thomas H. Kitten, and puffs out his cheeks like a Dutch 
Alderman, when he meets us on the walk. Even a dog resents our 
efforts to reform things; last week we devoted some valuable space 
to Dr. Royce's "yaller" hound, and it got us into trouble; before the 
article was dry from the press that hound made an abortive attempt 
to commit suicide by swallowing a dog button, and Dock blamed the 
deed to a grass widow, called it an outrage, and gave the pup an anti- 
dote that set him on his pins again ; but that article rankled in his dog 
bosom, and he thirsted for revenge, and he got it ; Sunday evening — 
not having to keep our eye peeled for our creditors — we sat down to 
numerate our more grievous sins, separate them into classes, and see 
how many of them we could lay to our wife, in case the Lord came 
down into our garden, when that hound got up on Dock's porch, sat 
down on the end of his tail, dropped his ears until they met beneath 
his snout, elevated his nose in the direction of Adromeda, shut his eyes, 
and began to deal out hound music, first in small quantities, then by the 
quart, gallon, bushel, yard, rod, in chuncks, by cart loads, wholesale 
and retail, any way to keep the tune going; in fact it seemed as if 
all the bark on him had got loose and was peeling off; he seemed to 
think *'He'd rather be a dog and bay the moon," than be a Roman 
or anything else, and he did bay the moon, and everybody else, and 
he kept on baying for three mortal hours. We have been told the dog 
has every modulation of voice; we stand ready to testify to it. That 
was certainly the most unearthly and diabolical noise that has smote 
our ears since a merciful Providence permitted us to move out of hear- 
ing of Sam Conver's horn. Yes, he kept at it until our shattered nerv- 
ous system was so tortured that we would have traded his racket for 
that of all the Band Boys practicing a new piece. Our idea of Heaven 
is a place where there is nothing for editors to reform, and where 
no yaller hound can ever come to make us envy the humble lot of the 
saw filer. 

A Wolf! A Wolf!! A Wolf!!! 

When we were younger and friskier than we are now, we read the 
story of the boy who cried wolf! and when the men ran to assist him 



356 HUMOROUS 



they found he had seen no wolf. He did this several times. One 
day the wolf did come and the boy cried wolf ! wolf ! ! but the men 
thought he was trying to fool them again, and refused to go, and the 
big wolf ate the boy up. After reading this story we determined to 
never tell another lie, and in order to be free from temptation we went 
into the newspaper business, and have refused to lie, and hence our 
poverty. 

But here is another wolf story. Once on a time — it might have 
been last Saturday — R. W. Taylor and John Scott, members of the firm 
of Taylor Bros. & Scott, dealers in lumber, shingles, lath, buggies, 
wagons, farm implements, engines, lime, cement, sand, hard coal, paints, 
varnishes, stains, oils, brushes, etc., etc., whose stock is the largest and 
prices the most attractive of any in Knox county, went to the farm of 
S. L. Vance to set up an engine, and while so employed a large and 
ferocious wolf was discovered on the premises, and they determined 
to slay the beast or perish in the attempt. Preparations were hastily 
made. Scott seized a monkey-wrench, Taylor got a screw driver, 
Vance rushed to the house, grabbed a double barreled shot gun, and 
gave the order to charge. Fortunately there were two powerful bull 
dogs on the farm, and these were deployed as skirmishers, with instruc- 
tions to engage the enemy and divert his attention until the three 
divisions of the main army, viz, the shot-gun the monkey-wrench and 
the screw-driver, could be brought up and placed in position. In the 
meantime the two dogs had come up with the enemy, engaged him, 
and were worrying him very considerably. At this juncture Taylor 
suggested that each repeat an inspiring war saying, and led off with 
"England expects every man to do his duty." Vance struck an atti- 
tude and said solemnly "Twenty centuries are looking down upon us." 
Scott looked around, scratched his head, and, swinging aloft the death- 
dealing monkey-wrench, shouted, "Mary had a little lamb, it's fleece 
was white as snow." Just then Arwine Garrison drove up and the 
wolf broke away from the dogs and took shelter behind the rig. Garri- 
son asked what was the matter. "Don't you see the wolf ?" "Wolf!" 
said Garrison, "that's Ralph Garrison's cur dog. What have you 
been drinking?" So ends my tale, and still the world goes on. 

A Frozen Toe 

The text for this little sermon is a girl's little toe. It is a good 
text, too, for she is a very fine girl. The matter is this : we are told that 
a girl had her little toe frozen while attending services at the Presby- 
terian church on a recent Sunday. Is it not time to take steps to put 
in a new heating apparatus? These two old stoves are a nuisance to 
the hearers, roasting some of them one minute and chilling them the 



HUMOROUS 367 



next, and they are a weariness to the flesh of the janitor, who cannot 
keep them at an even temperature. This is not a long sermon, but 
the conclusion we draw is that there would be as much religion in mak- 
ing the church comfortable in cold weather as there is in sending 
money to convert the heathen. Besides, these girls are too valuable to 
have their little toes frozen in any such manner. Everybody may not 
agree with our sermon, but then they never did with any sermon. 

The S. S. S. Buds 

Monday night the S. S. S. Buds held a meeting at the home of the 
Misses Roberts in honor of Miss Birdie Stevenson, one of their mem- 
bers, who is moving to Peoria. No reporter was present, but it has 
leaked out there was oodles and oodles of fun, and that all former 
records of this highly cabalistic society were broken. In fact their 
celebration extended over the entire city, and woke some of the slum- 
bering citizens, long after "Midnight's holy hour." There is a canny 
rumor that three Blossoms (married women) gained admittance — jn 
some mysterious manner — to their banquet hall, and that these same 
Blossoms had not entirely forgotten the pranks of the days when they 
were Buds, but waxed gay and hilarious. In one of the earlier raids of 
the evening a business man — a sly old bachelor, " d-e-v-i-1-i-s-h sly" — 
called the Buds in and treated them to candy, oranges and chewing 
gum. The Buds took one of the blossoms home — she is the beautiful 
wife of one of our most handsome young business men — they insisted 
that he should hug the entire posse, in consideration of the service they 
had rendered him in returning his truant spouse safe and sound, and 
he did — in his great gratitude — attempt to do so ; but after hugging 
one buxom lassie — one report says a full half hour — he was so delirious 
with bliss that instead of keeping strictly to business, he grabbed 
another sweet Bud, dragged her to the pump and pumped a barrel 
of water on her head. His wife succeeded in dragging him into the 
house, locked the door, and the rest of the Buds departed mourning 
that he was not hugger enough to go around. 

They then started out to end the fun by seranading some of the 
more prominent families, but had no instrument to play the accompani- 
ment, when fortune again favored them; they met Mrs. M. J. Steven- 
son returning from sitting up with a sick friend, and as luck would 
have it, she had her "Caterwalups" with her, and they do say that 
when she turned the handle — which in this instrument is always attach- 
ed to the back part — her playing was so perfect, so charming, and yet 
so comical, that some of the Buds could scarcely keep time in the sing- 
ing. 



358 HUMOROUS 



The S. S. S. Buds is a young ladies' club, and is so select that none 
but the best is admitted. No reporters are allowed to be present but 
"Walls have ears," and this report is correct. 

How About This? 

Some one has made the sage remark that "This is a funny, funny 
world," and some recent developments confirm us in the belief that it is 
not only a sage remark, but a true one as well. Many things are too 
deep for human philosophy. Sleeping and dreaming are both mysteries. 
May there not be a state between sleeping and waking, in which we 
act without knowledge and without recollection? Listen to a plain 
unvarnished tale. Tuesday night of this week, the wife of one of our 
prominent business men got up sometime during the "wee sma' hours," 
took off her gown, arrayed herself in an old blue wrapper, put on one 
stocking, put one garter under her pillow, hid the other stocking where 
it has not yet been found, and went back to bed. In the morning she 
was astonished at her changed appearance, and appealed to her hus- 
band to tell her "where she was at." And all this in a town sans 
saloons, minus airships, and where only visions of the wealth to come 
with the Durkee heirships is supposed to disturb the slumbers of the 
just. But such is life in a great city. 

The Story of Six Cyclers 

There is no pleasure but has its alloy; no rose the plucking of 
which may not discover a thorn ; no up but has its down ; no sweet 
but has its bitter; no morning but has its night; no calm but has its 
storm ; no skies so clear but dark clouds may hide their ethereal blue ; 
no mountain height but has its dark and sombre valley. And so it 
turned out that the six fair bicyclers who left the city Wednesday 
morning, flying on their wheels like graceful birds on wing, crept 
back in the darkness, amid the rain and mud, with plumage drabbled, 
dank and wet, content to move at pace of the slow moving horse, rid- 
ing on four wheels, instead of six, as when they left. It is said in 
the scriptures that "the rain descended, and the floods came, and 
the wind blew," and so it did that night. As the dark clouds rolled 
up from lurid west, and the dire noise of rain cart rumbling over the 
stone pile smote the 'larumed ear, and zizzag lightnings plowed their 
sinuous ways athwart the murky skies, those six silent and awed 
scorchers, tired out with pressing tiny foot on glittering pedal, were 
scattered two and two, from where Nead Bear resides, northward to 
M. D. Sargent's home, two at each mentioned place, and two sought 
shelter where Tinen dwells. 'Twas well that one had left a husband 



HUMOROUS 869 



at the home to mourn her absence, cook the beans, the bacon fry, the 
dishes wash, forgetting the skillet — as all men do; that one a lover 
had who yearned to fold her in his two willing arms and hold her 
there — as long as he had strength — for those two got a rig, and went 
out in the dark, the rain, the mud, the thunder's roar, the lightnings 
flash, rescued these stranded barks and towed them safe to port. 

Making a Postmaster 

Editor S. P. Wood, by the will of God editor of the Farmington 
Bugle, and by the will of Joe Graff and the consent of Bill McKinley 
postmaster of Farmington, was in the city Monday evening, and was 
a caller at this office. He is clean shaven, well dressed, fat, plump and 
independent. Editor Wood is handsome, has a head that is both 
ornamental and useful, and might have succeeded all by his lone self; 
but when the Lord "Made an editor outen o' him," and walked with 
him, they two wiggled along, through difficulties and trials ; but when 
Joe Graff saw what a noble struggle the editor and the Lord were 
making, he went to McKinley and said, ''Bill, here are two worthy 
individuals who are doing the best they know how; let us give them 
a boost ; you have opened the mills with one hand ; now reach out the 
other hand and take Sewell by the scruff of the neck and lift him into 
the Farmington postoffice." And Mc. said "I remember one time when 
Mark Hanna was all that saved me from asking a favor of the Lord, 
and now that I can help Him and a worthy editor at the same time 
I'll do it; Joe, tell Sewell that he can lick stamps at Farmington." 
When Wood stuck in his own toe-nails he went forward; when the 
Lord helped him he made progress; when Joe Graff found him the 
smile of hope lit up his gloom; when McKinley spoke the sun of 
prosperity shone full upon him. May his shadow increase and may his 
posterity eat white bread forever. 

Our Pretty Girls 

A couple of long legged, lop eared, lantern jawed, slab sided, 
club-footed, pigeon-toed, cantankerous looking specimens of the genius 
homo were in town Wednesday evening. At first we mistook them for 
a couple of hopeless insane persons who had escaped from Bartonville 
— most of those in Bartonville do make their escape — but when we 
heard them wonder "If they could find any 'purty' girls in this town," 
we realized that we were in the presence of two idiots — regular im- 
beciles. The very idea of wondering if there were pretty girls in 
Yates City! Why, there positively isn't any other kind of girls here. 
We have lived in Yates City for the last 30 years, and actually we 



360 HUMOROUS 



have lost all conception of what a homely girl really looks like. Our 
wife has a pet theory that we grow to be, in a degree at least, like the 
persons and things we daily come into association with, and last 
Tuesday night, when we came home from the revival, Mrs. Mc. said, 
"I know that my theory is true, for, Mc, I fancy that you are not 
quite as fearfully ugly as you were when we came to Yates City, 
and I don't believe that you are much homelier than J. A. Hensley." 
We fear there will be something doing when Mrs. Hensley meets Mrs. 
Me. All the Yates City girls are prettier than a new, red painted 
wagon box. Why, their beauty is only surpassed by their intelligence, 
their wisdom, their innate sense of modesty, and their decorum, and 
it may be said of any one of them, "She moves a queen." Sure thing, 
those two guys were idots of the first water — "Haverils," as the Scotch 
would say, only baked on one side and even that side not well done. 
To have these two "it's" wonder if there were any pretty girls in 
Yates City, caused our gorge to rise, and raised in us the old Adam 
up so high, that we wanted to light upon them, and smite them hip 
and thigh, but they were lusty cusses, and age has made us long on 
discretion. So fortunately they escaped, and we will not give our 
real opinion of them, for a sainted mother taught us never, never 
to say hard things about those whom a wise Creator has seen fit to 
leave unfinished in the upper story, and if we write further we might 
be tempted to say something disrespectful of them. 

As the Boys Remembered It 

A gang of men is at work putting down brick walks in Yates City. 
When they finish a walk past the house of a citizen they assess him 40 
cents for buying beer. When they got to the T. L. Long property 
Mrs. Long demurred to buying the beer, but said she would furnish 
the money to buy a cake, that she was to slice the cake, give her invalid 
husband a slice, and then divide the rest among the gang. The cake 
was bought and sliced, but when she came out with it she told them 
that they would get none of the cake until they repeated the Lord's 
prayer. At this announcement C. Spickard fainted, and the street 
commissioner laid him under a big tree and fanned him with a shovel. 
Bill Bowman began: "Dickery, dickery dock, three geese in a flock," 
when Frank Light broke in with, "0 were you ne're a school boy, 
and did you never train," but George Middleton said you are wrong, 
it is this way, "His father called, he did not go, because he loved the 
peanuts so." By this time Charlie Spickard had come to, and he 
said, boys, I remember it now: keep still; it is this way; "And now 
I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep." Just then 
D. M. Carter came along and they decided to leave it to him which 



HUMOROUS 361 



had it right, and after hearing what each said, he said, "Boys, you 
are all wrong ; I learned that prayer when I was a kid, and I can never 
forget it ; then when I was a ganger in Peoria I heard John McGinnis 
repeat that prayer a thousand times, and he always began like this 
** there are but two classes, the loyal Republicans and the dogfennel 
Democrats." Then Carter said, "I have heard Bill Corbin and Jim 
Putnam give it different, but John McGinnis had it right, and I think 
Mrs. Long ought to give the cake to Dave Tuckey. 

Three Prize Beauties 

Mrs. Jacob Lehman arrived home Saturday evening from Okala- 
homa City, Okalahoma, where she has been visiting her daughter, Mrs. 
G. W. Van Meter, and she says that she has the finest grandson, now 
two months old, and weighing seventeen pounds, and so good looking 
and then she insinuated that he looked remarkably like his grand- 
mother. She says that he will be here next summer, and that if our 
grandson, John A., comes down then, there will be two of the finest 
babies in town — John A. does not look a bit like we do, his beauty 
being of a different type — and it will be all right, if Ed. Taylor 
doesn't "butt in" with his baby, which he says is the "best ever." 

Important — If True 

[This week Everett Smith, the valued "typo" in the Banner office, 
has been unable to work, on account of an injured hand and sickness. We 
were working alone, Wednesday, when at seventeen minutes past four 
o'clock p. m., there was a timid knock at the office door, and on opening 
it was confronted by the most beautiful young girl we have ever seen. 
She blushed, and sweetly said: "Mr. McKeighan, do you ever print pieces 
and never, never, in all this world, tell who wrote them?" We assured 
her that we live mostly for that purpose, when she drew from a small 
hand-bag a bit of scented paper and timidly said: "I wrote this, and — well 
— I — I do think a lot of Everett — O! I don't mean — but I mean — wouldn't 
have him know I did this — not for the whole world." We told her the 
secret would be buried in the grave with us, and she gave us the piece, 
and went off along the hall humming in a low musical voice: 

What care I for gold and silver? 

What care I for houses and land? 
What care I for a world of pleasure? 

All I want is a handsome man. 

We turned musingly away, picked up a "stick" and set her piece, which 
the reader can peruse, as follows: — Ed.] 

"She was the typo's darling fair, he was her lover true. Said he 
you are the 'type' for me, I'll always 'stick' by you. I've had a 



362 HUMOROUS 



'chase' but now, my own, my 'take's' revised I guess; and now that 
love is 'justified' why, let us go to 'press.' The maiden hung her 
shapely head and whispered in his ear, while both her cheeks were 
rosy red, "The 'form' is ready dear." 

Found a Jug 

A. J. Coykendall is engaged in peregrinating over the county 
negotiating for those articles of clothing that the ravages of time have 
made unfit for adorning the persons of the possessors any longer. 

As A. J, was thus prosecuting his endeavor to secure a portion 
of the root of evil, and was meditating on what peace of mind falls to 
the lot of the man whose conscience is clear, he drew up to a house 
in the goodly township of Elba. His piece was spoken and the lady 
gave into his possession a sack of dilapidated linen, that weighed 
28 pounds. Jack bade her a polite good-day, mounted his wagon, and 
was soon enjoying a good smoke, while he was admiring the beauty 
of the country, and wishing he was a festive granger, with 340 acres 
of land, a wife and eleven children, when the off fore wheel dropped 
into a rut, and off tumbled the newly acquired sack. 

Of course he stopped to recover it, and in picking it up he felt 
something hard, and opening it brought forth a jug minus the handle. 

A. J. took one sniff at the jug, but it had been put to the base use 
of holding oil. He will return it, as he had no intention of cheating 
the woman. — Sic transit gloria jugi. 

Dog and "Devil" 

On Monday some fiend in human form presented our devil with a 
"purp" a long, lank, cadaverous looking purp : one with one half 
of his head black, the other white, while the rest of his body was of the 
color — of — well, a cross between a frost-bitten pumpkin and a brindle 
steer. That wretch at once introduced him into the office ; and if that 
devil ever lives to become an editor, and is one quarter as enterprising 
as that purp he will make the liveliest paper in America. He began 
business without any preliminaries by chewing up the twine ball, then 
he licked out the paste cup, upset the ink bottle, pied a galley of type, 
rubbed himself against the ink keg, tore up a bundle of bills that was 
ready to be mailed, and was looking for fresh victims, when dinner 
time came. We implored our devil to let him remain in the office, 
as we thought he could do but little more harm ; but no ; home to 
dinner he must go, and he did. But alas! when dinner was over, 
the doll lacked an arm, a skillet of grease was upset, the child's Sun- 
day shoes were under the porch, a half made dress was in shreds, a 



HUMOROUS 



pound of butter was missing, a jar of molassess was upset, and he was 
about to investigate a picture of Noah's Ark, when our better half 
interfered. She is generally mild as the sunny skies of Italy but her 
"gorge" rose at sight of the wreck; her choler was violent, her wrath 
warm, her indignation deep and strong; she "spoke not wisely but too 
well;" and her words entered into our ears, and settled down into 
our heart — into our very boots, and we were conscious that if she 
"loved us less she hated the other purp more," and we learned too, 
that our earthly happiness, our domestic peace, our connubial bliss 
depended on our seeing that the purp came to an untimely grave. 
Then we arose and sought for the purp, but we found him not ; we 
searched diligently but discovered him not, and it dawned upon us 
then that both the purp and our devil had did like unto the Arab by 
folding their tent and skipping out. We left the old lady more in 
anger than sorrow, and when we reached the office, on revenge bent, 
no dog was there. He had been sold to an Elmwood butcher and the 
face of our devil was as serene as a squash, as he fingered the marbles 
in his pocket, while he critically scanned the pied Presbyterian church 
directory, and blandly asked if a "long faced P should commence 
"Presbyterian." 

It has been years since we swore, but at that moment a gush of 
early memories overpowered us, and we heard a low murmur, like 
a wild wind harp, and it smote on our ear much as we remembered 
those sounds when we were playing marbles in the back alley. So 
we reached for the poor devil, reached out our hand to feel for him, 
but he too had departed like the joys of our earlier years. 

And One Chased a Hundred 

Last Sunday afternoon the quite and peace that should pervade 
the Sabbath was broken and destroyed by the conduct of a couple of 
so-called baseball aggregations that had gone into the pasture field 
owned by Thomas Terry — without his consent and without his 
knowledge — for why should those who have no respect for God's com- 
mandment, no regard for the municipal code, no obedience to render 
to state law — why should they respect the rights of Thomas Terry? 
"With them came about one hundred spectators, good, bad and indif- 
ferent, all tramping on the grass — and on the rights of Terry, and on 
all laws human and divine. The amusement each sought was there. 
The silly joke, the obscene jest, the filthy story, foul expectoration of 
tobacco juice, the villainous smell of the stinking and brain enervating 
cigarette, the vile oath, the horrid blasphemy, all were there, rising 
up toward heaven, and, as the enthusiasm increased — it always in- 
creases at a Sunday baseball game — it spread out farther and still far- 



364 HUMOROUS 



ther, until it penetrated to the more remote parts of the city, and 
attracted the attention of the most indifferent. The game is wearing 
to a close ; those who have been shouting in a mere whisper — if we are 
to believe their own testimony — are becoming exhausted; the entire 
crowd are gazing toward the west ; a vision has appeared in the west ; 
the vision is not the cloud the size of a man's hand; it is the veritable 
hand of a man ; it is fast by the arm to the body of a man ; that body 
is being carried forward on two stalwart legs; a silence deep, solemn, 
portentous has fallen on the hundred; it is the calm of Nature before 
the breaking of the storm ; as in the vision of the old prophet, there is 
no sound as of the wind going in the tops of the mulberry trees ; scarce 
the frail aspen seems to shake, that shadows o'er the road; the small 
bird will not sing aloud, the springing trout lies still, so darkly looms 
yon thunder cloud, that swathes as with a purple shroud Ben Ledi's 
distant hill; the vision is nearing; some one whispers "It is Terry"; 
rout, ruin, panic seizes all; at once there rose so wild a yell, within 
that dark and narrow dell, as all the fiends from heaven that fell, had 
pealed the banner cry of hell ; the hundred realize that even Terry has 
rights; they wish to go to some other spot and meditate; over the 
fence is out, in a ball game; and over the fence they went, helter- 
skelter, hurry-skurry ; there is a sound of flying feet, a digging in of 
toe-nails in the sod, a humping of backs, a stretching out of necks, a 
rolling of beaded perspiration down blanched faces, and over the 
barbed-wire fence roll the hundred, leaving souvenir of clothing on 
the barbs, mute but eloquent testimony to the truth of the observation 
of the good Deacon Philbee, when he said: "And thus doth conscience 
make cowards of us all." The worst thing about this story is that it 
is true. That morning the eloquence of a Schreiner had thrilled a 
wrapt congregation with convincing proofs that God made no mistake 
when He established the Sabbath, and Chicago papers were full of 
speculations as to the best means to stay the terrible carnival of crime 
that is rampant all over the land. Is such scenes as that enacted in 
Terry's pasture last Sunday afternoon calculated to educate in the 
right direction to become good citizens? Let us not deceive ourselves: 
"God is not mocked; whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also 
reap." 

Making a Record 

The motive power that perambulates the D. M. Enoch's delivery 
wagon is a diminutive sorrel horse named — we guess we are some- 
thing like P. Garrison was when he was playing the leading role in 
that blood-curdling tragedy, "The Deestrict Skule, " and he was re- 
quired to speak a piece, and after getting into position, and making 
a bow as gracefully as any hippopotamus could have made one, he spent 



HUMOROUS 365 



some time in solemn thought and began to scratch his head and said, "I 
think I've clean forgotten it." We have clean forgotten the name 
of that particular equine, but it is probably "Rosinate" or Sardanap- 
alus, or some such a distinguished name. At any rate he was sup- 
posed to be sedate, quiet and sobered by age and service, and that 
he was long done with coltish tricks. So, like a "trusty" in a penal 
institution, he was accorded privileges denied to the more pretentious 
of his race, and was permitted to browse on the vacant lots, still har- 
nessed to the delivery wagon. Tuesday evening he was munching 
tender grass on a lot at the corner of Main and Burson streets, when 
he suddenly took a notion to distinguish himself — or else he got 
badly frightened. Some there be that insinuate that the editor of the 
Banner was coming up town after the mail and that he suddenly 
broke into song, and that the horse, never having heard such terrible 
sounds, became frantic and in an effort to save himself, took to flight 
and dashed up Main street with the speed of a Zeppelin airship drag- 
ging the delivery wagon with him. We enter a denial of the charge. 
It is a base slander, as we were not sure on the bass key that evening. 
But we admit that the horse ran off, and might have been running 
yet, had not the citizens turned out en mass, and blocked the street, 
thus making it impossible for him to finish the course he had laid 
out. He was captured and led away to captivity, a living example 
of how abject is even a horse when the foot of the conqueror is on his 
neck. 

A Peaceful Errand 

S. P. Wood, editor of the Farmington Bugle, and James Tenley, 
of the same place, called at our office Monday. They are a jolly twain, 
and withal, rather disposed to be peaceable. But when we saw S. P. 
pull a long, bright, keen-looking sword from its scabbard, and Tenley 
strike an attitude a la Sullivan, we began to count up our few good 
deeds and set them over against the many bad ones of which we had 
been guilty, where the good ones looked so small, so trifling, so insig- 
nificant, so lonely, so like one black sheep in a flock of two thousand 
white ones, so like one Polled Angus on a ranch where forty thousand 
Texas steers are feeding that we felt thoroughly ashamed, and did 
what others have done when they thought themselves in great danger 
— we mentally resolved to reform. But just as we were about to 
abandon hope and direct that our effects be turned into cash, a pint 
of peanuts he bought with the money and distributed among the office 
boys, we saw a merry twinkle in Jim's oft' eye, and a feeling of hope 
crept up from our turtle shaped great toe, warmed the region of our 
gizzard, flushed our thoughtful face and spread even to the end of 
the middle digits of our hands. Then we ventured to ask, "Why is 



366 HUMOROUS 



this thus?" And we found that the boys were out — not to become 
avenged on their enemies — but that they were on the road represent- 
ing a great firm selling the sword and regalia for the Patriarch Mili- 
tant, a higher order of Odd Fellowship. Then did we give them the 
freedom of the office, exchange brain fabrications with them, and 
finally salaamed them out of our den in the latest style. 

Al. Kidder Threshes 

One would scarce expect to hear the shrill whistle of the steam 
thresher at this season, but it was heard on Wednesday when Al. 
Kidder did his threshing. This is earlier than Al. is in the habit of 
doing such work, but as the dry weather is shortening the grass crop, 
he thought the straw would help along the feed. Al. has always been 
opposed to hurrying in a job of threshing. About a quarter of a cen- 
tury ago, a gifted son of Illinois, named Lincoln, was selected to 
superintend the threshing of Jefferson Davis, et al. But Al. Kidder 
would not help ; he thought it was not the right time to thresh, and 
was in favor of waiting. In fact Al. 's ire was kindled against abo- 
litionists, union men, bondholders, and "sich," and he neglected to 
insist that the threshing should be done at the right time. We sup- 
pose that this became a habit with Al., and he now puts off threshing 
to the very last minute. In fact Al. worked 25 years to help thresh 
the "Black Republicans," and when it was finished to his satisfac- 
tion he did not think it best to rush the threshing business. Al. 's 
grain will not be sold at present. Being a rock-rooted, mountain-but- 
tressed, moss-backed, dyed-in-the-wool, simon pure reform democrat, 
he is constitutionally opposed to doing anything until at least twnety- 
five years after other people have done the same thing. Al. is a great 
man; he is a good man; nothing in this article is to be so construed 
as to work hardship to him either in person, character, reputation 
or property. We are opposed to laying the sins of one to the charge 
of another, and it certainly was not Al.'s fault if Lee failed to cap- 
ture Grant, and Jeff. Davis donned a hoop skirt after Lincoln threshed 
him. These things happened rather in spite of Al. and it may be 
that the dry weather forced him to thresh his last year 's crop so much 
earlier than common. 

Wild Turkeys 

Last week we stated that S. Boyer had captured a couple of partly 
grown wild turkeys; Monday morning Elias Fletcher and M. T. 
Beardsley met us, and stated that they wanted their papers stopped; 
they said that they could condone an ordinary lie, but this one was 



HUMOROUS 367 



more than they could stand. We tried to smooth matters over, but 
could not; so we went around to Steve and told him that he must 
pay us $4, the amount of a year's subscription from Fletcher and 
Beardsley. Steve said he guessed he ought to pay it if he could not 
convince them it was a wild turkey. After a thorough examination 
Fletcher found that the turkey was not only a wild one; but that 
it was a genuine Galloway. It has all the peculiarities of the Gallo- 
way ; it is black, has no horns, is an easy milker, will not jump, lays 
on fat easily, winters well, is prolific — generally having twins — and 
does not shed its horns like the deer. In fact Fletcher was more 
than satisfied and agreed to continue taking the paper. As soon as 
Beardsley understood how it was he agreed to continue too, in case 
we would agree to have a good-looking, black-eyed widow start a 
millinery shop in Mr. Fletcher's new store. Now, if any of our read- 
ers know of such a widow, please let us hear of it. 

What Kind of Goat? 

A scientist says "a goat lives about ten years, and will give about 
a quart of milk a day." What kind of a goat. Mister, a billy or 
nanny? We consider the point important when it comes to a milk 
proposition. 

The White Dove of Peace 

Thanks to our cowardly carcass, we are at peace with all our 
editorial brethren. Some time ago we concluded that we could not 
feel easy in our conscience if we demolished so handsome, intelligent 
and good a set of men, and we resolved to quit making faces at 
them, went to them individually, and told them not to harbor any 
malice in their bosoms against us, as we certainly had used great 
caution in not saying half as bad of them as we really thought, and 
certainly if we had said anything that we were sorry for we were 
glad of it. Since that time a great peace has filled the cavity above 
our stomach, and we had hoped that such a course would have made 
us the venerable bell sheep to lead the editorial lambs into the fold 
of peace. But we notice that postoffices and politics have set our Ful- 
ton county editors by the ears, while in Galesburg the editors are walk- 
ing up and down on opposite sides of an imaginary fence, with bristles 
erect, and going sidewise, after the style of a hog going to war, and 
all on account of the water question. Just why these Galesburg editors 
should get by the ears over something that they know nothing about, 
is a mystery that probably will never be explained. But as our main 
hold is mending and patching up cracked and broken friendships, we 
suggest that our Galesburg brethren drink a little water — carefully 



368 HUMOROUS 



at first — go out to some large pond and wash off, in which disguise 
they can pass each other on the street without knowing each other. 
In the meantime we are laying hold with both hands on the pillars 
of the spiritual temple in order to bring these erring ones under the 
power of some influence that will make them so loving that they will 
be willing to suck each other's ears a la spring calves. 

We Object 

There is one thing about the harvest home program that we wish 
to enter a respectful but firm objection to. The attempt has been 
made to have the ladies furnish their own hammers for the nailing 
contest. We do not think it is fair to ask the ladies to carry a hammer 
about with them all day, in order that they may get 10 cents for 
each nail they may drive — provided they can drive said nail quicker 
than any one else. But it is not on account of the inconvenience to the 
ladies that we base our main objection. We base it on the grounds 
of personal safety. Just suppose that the ladies come to the harvest 
home each carrying a claw hammer. Suppose that during the events 
of the day one — or even all — of these ladies were to become offended 
with something said or done? A hammer is a dangerous weapon 
under any circumstances, and in the hands of an irate female woman, 
it would be a menace to limb, and even life. Excuse us. If' the 
women are to be armed with great claw hammers, we do not wish to 
be in the crowd, as we would feel safer if absent in the body. It is 
the part of wisdom — nay, rather of valor — for is not discretion the 
better part of valor? — to have the committee furnish the hammers, 
rather than let the women loose in such a gathering each armed 
with a claw hammer. We object strenuously. We care not what 
course others take, but as for us, give us a crowd of hammerless 
women, or let us brave death at the mouth of a cannon, or set us to 
picking burs out of the tail of a mule, any old way, but not by the 
hammer route. 

A Tramp Printer 

Last Friday morning, while we were trying to make the profit 
side of our ledger jibe with the loss by double entry, a large florid, 
shock-headed, freckle-faced, red-haired specimen of the genus tramp 
printer walked into the office and wanted to know who wore the 
brass collar of the shebang. He was dressed in a ragged uniform 
of the "Soldiers' Home," wore a pair of dilapidated shoes with 
soles on them like the quarter-deck of a government mud scow, and 
carrying in his hand a large saber of the vintage of the late unpleas- 
antness. He said his name was Bill Smith from Spoon river, and 



HUMOROUS 369 



that the Governor had requested him to go down to Springfield and 
locate the Soldiers' Home. He also intimated that he had a hand in 
putting down the rebellion, all of which we readily conceded for the 
sake of euphony and a growing family of children. Of course we 
invited him to tarry and help run up our meat bill. He said he would, 
and he did. He remained till Saturday evening, by which time we 
had learned his history, travels, hairbreadth escapes, and deeds of 
valor. We presented him with a silver medal surmounted by an 
eagle, and his colossal form was soon lost to view on its way to 
Farmington. He was a bona fide tramp, take him for all in all — we 
shall ne'er look upon his like again. 

Insulted 

On Thursday we were invited to a wedding anniversary at M. B. 
Mason's, and as we had a hankering after one more square meal we 
went. And we had a good time too; but, alas! To do this we were 
obliged to get a well-known citizen to edit the paper for us that day. 
It may be that he was naturally cut out for the business, and was, 
therefore naturally depraved; it may be that he had some mortal 
grudge against us, for some injury we have done him; perhaps we 
never shall know; but he took occasion to ask us to keep away from 
town; he not only said, "Mc. keep your phiz away," but he empha- 
sized it by saying "keep your ugly phiz away." It may be that time 
will heal this deep and deadly wound to our handsome honor; it may 
be that we will be able to forget it; but, so long as looking glasses 
are in use, we doubt it. This foul stab at the very foundation of our 
popularity, will be the dark cloud hanging over our future life. If 
we are invited out to dinner, we may be grim, gaunt, slim and awful 
anxious to eat with white folks; but how can we, when some craven 
hand may be tracing some word in derogation of our classic features? 
Our present idea is — if there be justice for American citizens — to 
wreak a terrible revenge on this man. It will not do to suffer it; the 
next thing he would be ready to swear that a Chinese God was not a 
beauty. It may be rough on this temporary editor, but men and gods 
must feel secure. 

Hind Sight 

This week we met the man who always tells you that he predicted 
the very kind of weather we are having, no matter what it may be. 
Some days ago he told us that he knew we would have a thaw; he 
said he was aware all the time that the first part of the winter would 
be mild. And now he says that he told his wife, and several neigh- 
bors, that a blizzard would come on last P"'riday, and told them just 



370 HUMOROUS 



how long it would last. We always meet this man after a change 
has taken place, and then he always insists that he told us of it some 
time before, and is surprised to think that we do not remember it. 
This man is about the ordinary size, dresses much as other men, 
shaves once a week, sometimes smokes and sometimes don't, has been 
over the Rocky Mountains at least twice, was in the late war, and, 
of course, halted General Grant on the picket line, and compelled 
him to give the countersign, met General Garfield in Tennessee, and 
after a social chat with him, remarked to the Lieutenant Colonel of 
the Eighth Missouri, that Garfield would yet be president, and was 
generally detailed as Orderly to the commanding General during 
battle. Besides telling you that he told some one of the coming 
change, he will tell you that nine years ago this winter was just 
such a winter for all the world. He has been engaged as a weather 
predicter as long as either the man who always predicts a severe 
winter or the one who always predicts a mild one, but he never 
misses it; he is a dead sure shot on the weather. He can in- 
fallibly tell how many snows the winter will give — after the 
winter is past. He can always tell how many thunder showers the 
summer will have — after the summer is gone. This man belongs 
to a large family who are scattered over the country, and what is 
remarkable they are all post-weather prophets, all great men — on 
the predict. 

Like Pulling Teeth 

E. F. Taylor is an all around man. He worked on a farm in his 
early days, has done carpenter work, is agent for a first-class tailor- 
ing establishment, also for the Lehman laundry, is a first-rate barber, 
has been an insurance agent, has raised chickens, and water melons — 
the latter out of somebody else's patch — and in his younger days 
he used to raise something that isn't spelled the same as chicken; 
besides all these he is a funeral director and undertaker, so when 
Thomas Hand came into his shop last Friday and asked Ed if he 
could pull a tooth for him, Ed said that undertaking was his bus- 
iness, and he would undertake the job, and he assured Mr. Hand 
that if he died in the operation his corpse should be embalmed and 
turned over to his friends. Tom got into the barber chair, and Ed 
armed himself with an instrument that old Joe Jacobs got the summer 
of 1843 to remove wolf teeth from horses, tilted back the chair, climbed 
up on the back part of the chair, seated himself on Tom's chest, 
put a leg over each of the victim's shoulders, braced his feet on the 
chair back, seized the tooth with his canthook, and the circus was 
opened. P. A. Taylor, who is Ed's partner in the shop, was standing 
on the west side of Union street, when he was startled by a series of 



HUMOROUS 871 



shrieks and unearthly yells emanating from the shop, and looking 
across, he saw a couple of large objects flying up and down from the 
floor to the ceiling, and rushing across, he found it was Tom's feet 
going flurry-laly, like a lamb's tail, and that the yells were also his. 
P. A. yanked the door open, and Ed gave an extra surge on the cant- 
hook and leaped to the floor, waving the offending molar on the point 
of his instrument of torture. Tom regained consciousness the next 
afternoon, and is slowly convalescing. No arrest as yet. 

An Aged Hen 

The editor of this Great Moral Pendulum has always had a pro- 
found respect for old age, and we have looked with veneration on 
extreme age, and now we have added awe to veneration. It came 
about in this way: The boss of our humble cot ordered us to get a 
chicken for the Sunday dinner, and we did. Any order coming from 
that direction is always obeyed by us. It is best for our health. 
The dealer picked us out a nice plump young pullet — at least that is 
what he told us after a careful examination, and after he had pinched 
the fowl's legs a la connoisseur. We took the fowl home and the 
boss of our cot hinted that it was a mature hen, and probably not 
as young as it used to be. We assured her that either she, or some- 
body else was mistaken, which was true, but it was not her, it was 
somebody else. There was another mistake made when we did not 
get up until 8 a. m. The fowl was put on to roast but it proved 
to be a deliberate chicken, and did not roast with that degree of 
celerity that we had hoped for. The day wore away, and so did 
our wood-pile, and our back was bowed, like that of Atlas, from 
carrying wood from the barn, but that fowl was as solid as the 
man who has the largest bank account. At last our stomach col- 
lapsed as flat as M. Santos Dumont's dirigible balloon the day it 
ducked him in Monaco bay, and we made a desperate charge on that 
fowl, but we were defeated on a foul by the fowl. Excuse us, please, 
we do not know just how old that hen was, but we are satisfied that 
it was considerably older than J. W. Dixon's youngest child. We 
are convinced that when we lifted our axe to decapitate that ancient 
hen, we struck at one of the oldest things in the United States, if not 
in the world. If there was any antediluvian chicken survived, 
she was it; if not she knew more about Noah's ark than many who 
have written on that vexed question. Monday the boss of our cot 
dismembered the remains with a cleaver, and after boiling for six 
hours she succeeded in impailing a fragment on the prongs of a 
sharp fork. Gentle reader, we will admit that this particular hen 
was old and tough. 



872 HUMOROUS 



A Remarkable Woman 

When we first east our lot among the good people of Yates City, 
and entered into a vigorous tussle in order to supply our natural 
wants, we had a high regard for women in general, and for some of 
them in particular. But we sadly confess that our experience has not 
been of a character to confirm the correctness of our first impressions. 
Then we were satisfied that women were only a little lower than the 
angels; in fact we supposed about all the difference consisted in the 
matter of wings. Now we are clearly of opinion that there are other 
differences, that, although not so clearly defined, are still distinctly 
marked. It is the custom of the Yates City women to call on each new 
family that takes up its abode in their midst ; no well regulated woman 
of this place would consider that she had performed her duty did she 
neglect this. The first one who called on us came just after we got 
to the house. She declared she couldn't stay, but must go right back 
again, and it wasn't worth while to take off hat or shawl; she wasn't 
well, and nothing short of her duty of calling on strangers could have 
induced her to leave home ; she never went nowhere much. Her baby — 
poor thing — was sick; last night she thought it would die with the 
croup. Then her elder daughter caused her much anxiety; she was 
so delicate, although she looked well ; was afraid she would lose her yet, 
A younger daughter had always been afflicted ; one of her knees was in 
the habit of slipping out of joint; then she was subject to tonsilitis; 
why sometimes you could hear that child breathe a half-a-mile. Then 
another child was so anxious to learn that books had to be kept out of 
its sight. I asked her how old this child was, and she said, only three 
years, but it had such a notion for study, it was very remarkable. I 
found out afterward that this child didn't know its letters. She said 
some people seemed to be born to trouble; her mother never had good 
health, and she never had. For six years she had the rheumatism so bad 
she never left her bed! for sixteen years she had been nearly blind, 
and for seven years was entirely blind in one eye; finally got some 
better, but expected to lose that eye yet; for sixteen years she had the 
erysipelas three months in the year; for nineteen weeks she was down 
with smallpox; for sixty -five days she had the typhoid fever, and in all 
that time the light was not out in the house. Then suddenly placing 
her finger on the side of her neck, she asked us if we had any idea 
what caused that scar? We told her we had not the slightest. That, 
said she, in a triumphal tone, was a cancer, and I don't think any 
other woman ever suffered as I did with that ; for forty-three days and 
nights I never slept a wink, and I weighed just forty-one pounds; I 
finally killed it with tansy tea, but it was over nine years before I 
could do any work. Then she placed both hands on her breast and 
exclaimed, * * Oh, my heart ! ' ' did we ever have the heart disease ? Well, 



HUMOROUS 878 



I do declare; never had it! I have had it now for going on seventeen 
years; it's dreadful, and I expect to die with it yet. Once she expected 
to die with the yellow fever — that was when she lived in Alabama — 
she had it bad for five weeks. In 1852 she had the Asiatic cholera, but 
got over it. Thought now that the chord leading from her backbone 
to her heart was broken; in fact the doctor thought her spine almost 
entirely gone, and one of her arras got out of place occasionally, while 
the other arm she could not lift at all, and when she did lift it, Oh how 
it did hurt! She had the tooth-ache for fourteen years, almost inces- 
santly, and she had to keep cotton in her ears to ward off earache, while 
every Wednesday and Sunday she had the headache. But she must 
go right back; hadn't walked so far before in four years; wouldn't 
our wife come over to see her? had taken a fancy to her on sight; had 
forgotten to tell us that her family had never had the itch, nor had 
a bedbug ever been seen in her house, and one thing she could say 
without boasting, and that was that no child of her's had ever been 
lousy. At the end of three hours she took her leave, but not until she 
knew how many dresses our wife had, and where she got such a love of 
a hat, and how old the children were, and how many cans of fruit we 
had, and got two dress patterns, and three apron patterns, one bonnet 
pattern, and borrowed a little salaratus, and warned our wife who 
to associate with and who not to associate with. As her footfall died 
away on the walk, we remarked to our wife, reflectively, that is a 
remarkable woman. 

A Medicine Ad. 

There are editors who are ambitious to shine, and who sing the 
praises of the *' Grand Elliptical, Asiatical, Panticurial, Nevous Cor- 
dial;" others extol the "Grand Parramanna, Rhap Squianna, from 
Whandete Whang Whang." But we are here to sing for Hartsook's 
Infallible Salve, that reaches down into the very grave and yanks 
back to vigor the one as good as dead; we extol that matchless remedy 
that, by a simple twist of the wrist, pries open the powerful jaws of 
death, and releases the wriggling victim, just as he or she is about to 
turn up his or her toes to the daisies. This salve shows the possibilities 
of a free country. If you have 25 cents you can get a box of this salve ; 
if you have a box of this salve you can laugh at old sores, forget old 
scores, smile in the grinning face of death, and poke fun at the rusty 
scythe that hangs over his shoulder. Why should people "crowd the 
road to death as to a festival, ' ' when by getting a box of this salve they 
may kick up their heels in clover? 

Missing 

Can it be possible that our worthy, esteemed and valuable Bismark 
correspondent has become lost in the alfalfa fields of that portion of 



m 



374 HUMOROUS 



our great and glorious domain? "Our hopes and fears start up 
alarmed, ' ' for evil camps on the trail of the just, and even a good man 
is not exempt from "The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." 
And then again it may be that some maiden fair and coy, just budding 
into beauteous womanhood, with teeth of pearl and tresses deftly curled, 
has made at him the goo goo eyes, and turned him from the paths of 
literature. May all the gods forbid. 

Left Rapidly- 
Last week one of our citizens had a little family tiff with his wife, 
and he resolved to flee from the city in the stilly night, and incarcerate 
himself in the Soldiers' Home, or some other safe retreat. So he put his 
Sunday clothes in an old corn crib, and waited for darkness. A couple 
of town wags found them, stuffed them with straw, set them in the 
corner and left. Our citizen cautiously approached in the gloaming, 
and seeing the stuffed suit, took it for a tramp, and left the locality 
at a 2:40 gait. 

W. T. Corbin's Experience 

W, T. Corbin is a dealer in cattle, hogs, sheep, wool and pelts. 
He is known to a large number of people in Knox, Peoria and Fulton 
counties. He is an excellent judge of stock, and is prosperous and 
happy. 

Some two years ago he decided that the good book was correct 
in the statement that "It is not good for man to be alone," so he took 
unto himself a beautiful and intelligent girl for a wife, and he built 
for her a neat and tasty bungalow on West Main street. 

A couple of weeks ago he concluded that the lawn was too much 
like some men's heads — it had far too large a bald spot — so he got a 
package of clover seed at West's elevator, and as West was busy he 
told Corbin to go to the elevator and get the seed. On his way home 
he stopped at C. V, Bird's meat market to get a steak, and there he 
encountered W. M. Bantz, he of the smile that won't come off, C. V. 
Bird, whose judgment of beef cattle is really better than his judgment 
of grass seed, and the editor of the Banner. Corbin asked their opinion 
of his grass seed. 

Bantz said it was by far the purest and best sample of genuine 
red clover he had examined in seventeen years. The editor said that 
Bantz was scarcely correct, that he had the endorsement of Judge 
P. W. Gallagher that he was an expert agriculturist, and that he had 
grown up among the greenest of grasses, and he positively knew that 
it was a mixture of all the most noted grasses and was intended for 
the most aristocratic lawns. C. V. Bird asked to be excused until he 
put on his glasses, and then, after a careful inspection, he said Bantz 



HUMOROUS 376 



was too hasty in his decision, and he was of the opinion that the editor 
had spent so much time with green grasses, that he had become like a 
tree toad, somewhat green himself. "Now," said he, "any one can see 
that there is some clover seed in this package, but my opinion is it 
is mixed with timothy, with a smattering of fox-tail." 

Corbin began to realize that he had secured a bargain in grass 
seed, so he went home and carefully sowed the grass seed, being careful 
not to waste a single seed. Before he began to sow it, his wife told 
him to fold up the bottom of his pant legs, so as not to get them soiled, 
and we have the testimony of S. S. Goold that when Corbin finished the 
job he turned down the fold in his pant legs, and carefully brushed out 
every seed, so none might be lost. 

He then went to the grain office to pay West, and insisted that his 
price on grass seed was too low. Harley Dixon inquired what box he 
got it out of, and Corbin told him. Dixon and West then told him 
it was not grass seed at all, but the refuse blown out of the clover seed 
in cleaning it. They gave him some real clover seed, and he sowed 
that. He now says that he is puzzled whether to recommend Bantz, Bird 
or the editor for the position of state inspector of grass seed at Chicago. 

Our Hat Off to Andy 

And now comes that great and good man, Andy Alpaugh, and 
deposes and says that he owns all the lands, buildings and appur- 
tenances thereto belonging, embraced in 152 feet front on Main street, 
viz., etc., from the corner of the I X L barber shop, thence west to 
and including four linear feet of Dr. H. J. Hensley's drug store, thence 
directly to Sneak alley, sometimes called Tangleleg way, thence east 
to the southeast corner of the Banner office, thence north on Union 
street to the place of starting. Mr. Alpaugh swears by the bones of the 
murdered Morgan and the hairy scalp of Hiram Abiff, that the above 
described real estate is his by the right of discovery — a right recog- 
nized by the Pope and all other enlightened Christian potentates — 
that he has the deed for it duly signed, sealed and delivered, that it 
is recorded, and therefore his title extends as far back as the memory 
of man, and embraces the time when the only right man held was a 
usefructary right, and that this title empowers him to cut timber, hunt, 
fish, dig gold, minerals and precious stones on said tract; that he has 
authority to bargain, sell, trade off, give away, or otherwise dispose 
of all, or any portion of said premises, and further, that he has author- 
ity to rent or lease said property, and collect for the same. If the 
above claims are valid — and we see nothing to the contrary — then, 
indeed, has our Andy a cinch on a good thing, for it must be patent 
to all that he owns all the real estate in Yates City that doesn't belong 



376 HUMOROUS 



to somebody else, and that on the same principle he also owns all the 
arable land in the state the title to which is not vested in somebody 
else. Our hat goes up for Andy. 

Thanks 

Last Monday night, between the hours of ten and eleven o'clock, 
a party of four persons, in an open rig, serenaded several families in 
the city, among others those of Henry Soldwell, C. L. Roberts, and the 
editor. It was not one of the loud-mouthed serenading parties, for not 
a word was spoken. But the music was splendid, floating out on the 
still, evening air so softly, so sweetly, that one might have thought the 
pearly gate was open and the angels tuning their harps. Thanks to 
the party. We are told that Claude and Delbert Enochs of Canton 
and Jacie Riner of this city were three of the party. 

A Four Legged Turkey 

And now comes the wild, woolly, wonderful word, wandering 
wearily westward from worthy Bismark, that Mrs. Rose Anderson set 
some turkey eggs, whether under a common hen or under a turkey 
hen deponent saith not, nor does it matter. But the strange and 
startling story is that one of these eggs hatched out a turkey that has 
four corners, and a leg on each corner. This is about double the 
number of legs that any well regulated turkey would seem to have 
any possible use for. Whether it has four wings, two gizzards and a 
brace of wishbones we are not informed, but it is a wonderful turkey, 
and if it lives will be a dandy bird for Thanksgiving. 

Joe Kennedy's Cow 

Joe Kennedy lives just outside the corporate limits of the beauti- 
ful city of Farmington. Joe has a Jersey cow that he set great store 
by. She is a cow large of udder, and gives gobs of milk. Tuesday 
night some villain — one not yet thoroughly weaned, it is supposed — 
sought the barn lot and milked this gentle bovine in the "stilly night." 
Joe says he does not care so much for the loss of the milk, but he does 
not like to have his favorite "bossy" woke up so early and broken 
of her rest. This story has nothing whatever in common with the 
story of the "cow with the crumply horn," for this one is sans horns, 
no doubt having been operated on by R. B. Corbin's celebrated dehorn- 
ing fluid, none genuine except the name is blown in the bottle, all 
rights reserved and all infringements prosecuted. 



HUMOROUS 377 



Another Remarkable Woman 

Last week we spoke of the remarkable woman who called on us 
the day we arrived in Yates City. We soon discovered that our near- 
est neighbor was a widow named Annise Donyx. We soon got ac- 
quainted with her; she came over the morning after we moved, to 
get a little salt to salt butter; wanted to know if we didn't use fine 
salt for butter? She always did, but some people didn't seem to know 
the difference. The next morning she came to get some sugar ; would 
rather have white sugar, but supposed she could get along with brown. 
The next morning she wanted soap enough to do a washing, and, 
could we spare a washboard? This was only a beginning; she bor- 
rowed pepper, cloves, allspice, cinnamon, nutmeg, rising, flour, bread, 
meat, candles, oil, lamp wick, ginger, bluing, rice, vinegar, molasses, 
coffee, tea, apples, cannel fruit, peaches, matches, flatirons, wash tubs, 
stove kettles, steamer, brass kettle, clothes pins, clothes line, hammer, 
augers, saw, nails, chisel, hoe, rake, spade, coal, wood, potatoes and 
butter. She came twice a day for milk, once for sour milk, and once 
for sweet milk. Then if she was going to have company she wanted 
chairs, dishes, knives, forks, spoons, bowls, and, sometimes, a clean 
table cloth. In fact, she borrowed frequently. This got to be monoto- 
nous in six or eight months, but as she was a woman and a widow, 
we did not like to complain. After a time, our financial condition 
seeming to justify it, we came to the conclusion to invest in a pig, 
thinking it would be proper to raise our own meat. So we went over 
to an Irishman to buy a pig. We asked him if the pig was good stock. 
"Is it the sthock yez wud be afther inquirin' about? Shure, is it 
Barney McFlynn that wud be afther kaping anything but the tap 
o' the sthock? Be jabers, sor, but barrin' ill usage, the aquil o' that 
same pig niver gruntit in ony jintleman's parlor; yez might search 
the blissed ould Isle itself, and from Cork to Tipperary the match o' 
that very pig niver rootit in a prata patch! It's meself that wus 
offered forty-foive dollars fur that pig at the fair, but I towld thim 
I wusna near sa graan as I luckt; the jintlemen that toid the ribbon 
on the pigs said that they wuldn't disgrace this pig by comparing it 
wy the lave o' them; and the praist — bliss his rivirence — said he had 
seen men wy worse manners nor that pig had. But it's no for the 
loikes o' me ta ba boastin' about the bit pig; it's yer honner can tell 
plenty fasht its the decent baste he is, an' sa docile, too, he wudn't 
harum the laste thing in the wurruld, an mesilf that's sorry he didna 
ha' a better master nor Barney McFlynn." We closed the deal at 
$50, and as Barney clutched the money, he said: "Shure, its mesilf 
that knows yez is the illigant judge av a pig." It took a half day 
to get that pig to consent to go on our property, and it spoiled the 
other half badly before we could induce him to enter the sty we had 



378 HUMOROUS 



prepared. We learned more about the hog than we ever knew before. 
We found that a great mistake had been made in putting this one 
together, his head having been put on the wrong end. He had large 
decision, and it took some argument to convince him that he didn't 
know best where he wanted to go. We pride ourself on being too 
much for an animal, and so we finally got him in limbo. But we soon 
found he had no notion of staying there. Half an hour after we found 
him in the garden rooting up a celery bed; at 7 o'clock next morning 
we discovered him finishing up a patch of peas; at half past eight 
he was in the poultry yard and gobbled up a setting of Buff Cochin 
eggs that lacked only three days of hatching; at 10 he had eaten 
eleven goslings, and he caught two more before we could explain 
things to his satisfaction; by 3 o'clock p. m. we found our full-blood 
Polled Angus calf minus his natural defense against flies. When we 
got him in this time we did not dare to leave him, but sending for a 
scientific work on defense, we worked until supper to make the place 
secure. We hired a boy to guard him while we got our rations ; but 
what boy ever did his duty? He got to playing mumblety-peg ; on our 
return that pig was non est ; he had moved by the left flank and eluded 
the guard, and all our efforts to come up with his rear guard that 
night were futile. The first hint we got of his whereabouts was from 
the widow. She called early and asked if we were about the premises ; 
on answering her summons, she did not say good morning, but said, 
"Is that your pig that has destroyed my garden?" We said it might 
be; that he got out accidentally, and we could not find him. "Got out 
accidentally!" said she. "I don't believe a word of it; you turned it 
out to get into my garden; if you can't feed a pig at home you had 
better not keep one; besides, I'll permit no bow legged excuse for a 
man to serve me such a trick." We tried to apologize, but she didn't 
give us a chance ; for half an hour she bombarded us with adjectives 
more forcible than polite. When she finally got out of breath, we 
unguardedly said that we did not think a lady would talk so. Ah ! 
gentlemen, that was a terrible mistake. In fifteen minutes you could 
not have told that our hair had ever been combed, and our face looked 
like a pumpkin that the calves had nibbled. We had reason to be 
thankful that nothing on earth is everlasting ; we escaped at last. We 
do not think the barber made a quarter out of us before August, and 
we used four bottles of liniment ; we put that pig in a patent hog 
trap that cost us $15; the widow didn't borrow any more at our house, 
and we don't believe that all women would be angels if they had wings. 

We Reluctantly Decline 

The C. B. & Q. Railroad Company sent us an advertisement, worth 
some fifty or sixty dollars a year, and wanted us to sign an agreement 



>, I 



HUMOROUS 379 



to publish it for one year, and also to put in all changes in their time 
table and all locals they saw fit to require, and they offered us the 
magnificent remuneration of a pass over their branch road from Canton 
to Vermont. Now, we are sorry to say that our innate sense of honesty 
prevents us from accepting this liberal offer, that none but a wealthy 
corporation could aft'ord to make. We don't wish to bankrupt the 
company; they are too valuable an aid in the game of taking from 
honest labor its just earnings to be used up financially; yet we know 
that the people have a great respect and love for them ; yea, many of 
them, rather than put the C. B. & Q. to too much trouble, ship their 
things on other roads, even when it costs them less than the said com- 
pany would charge; we know that many farmers haul grain twenty- 
five miles to market rather than see this company impoverish itself 
by the modest price they charge. No ; a corporation so loved and 
honored by the people along its entire route we wouldn't harm for 
anything in the world; besides, we don't really need a pass; we belong 
to the tramp class, and we rather enjoy hoofing it from Canton to 
Vermont, and if we don't wish to walk, any of our neighbors will 
hitch up a team and take us over, by our merely promising never to 
return. But we have another serious objection to riding out that 
amount of advertising between the places named. "We fear that occu- 
pying the seats in their passenger coaches to that extent would wear 
out our Sunday pants, and as we have only one pair we don't think 
we could stand the pressure. No, thank you ; we won't ride. 

He Would Go 

Our ''devil" insisted on going to the lecture Saturday night. We 
warned him that some dire calamity would overtake him, but he would 
not be warned. He chewed gum persistently for half an hour after 
the lecture commenced, but the technical names used by the professor 
were too much for him, and he began to lose consciousness, his jaws 
refused to wag, his mouth opened like the bay of San Francisco, and 
his face assumed a look of, who-cares-a-cuss-for-Phrenology that was 
comical in the extreme. Our first thought was to let that "devil" 
rest, but seeing that he was monopolizing the attention of the audi- 
ence, we smote him a terrible smite, that awoke him to the solemn 
realities of life, and his jaws were soon in motion trying to make up 
for lost time on the gum. 

A Squab Dog 

Nubbin Ridge, August 3, 1880. 
Hiram Squab's dog, Dilgo, was a walking rail fence and hedge 
combined. He never did less than throw cattle over a nine rail fence. 



880 HUMOROUS 



If in the middle of the field, he carried them out. Dilgo loved to 
gather eggs, but could never be taught to bring them in before eating 
them. I heard this from Hiram's little girl. I suppose he forgot to 
tell me. Dilgo would never let the hired girl enter the room where 
Mr. Squab was, after dark. Mrs. Squab liked him for this. Dilgo was 
worse than a country paper on peddlers. The paper is content to 
incite other people to injure peddlers, but he practiced while they 
preached, and you could tell the number of times a peddler had called 
at Squab's by the scars on his person. 

The recording of the deeds of man's heroism in the past ages of 
the world's history, not only on the field of battle, but in the very 
day walks of life, and among all classes and conditions, has a direct 
tendency to induce us to emulate their praiseworthy achievements. Not 
only so, but it is a powerful motive urging us to deeds of still nobler 
daring; and the curious fancy has struck me upon these observations, 
that if our dog could be, by some means, taught the rudiments of a 
good English education, so he might read the oft repeated stories, or 
even could understand half that is told of him, it would stimulate him 
to actions beyond our present belief, or else man's standing in regard 
to veracity would be greatly diminished in the dog's estimation — prob- 
ably the latter. While we are digging around in the dark and dirty 
mines of the world, we must expect to unearth, once in a while, some 
apparently unfinished or some marred specimen of the work of the 
great Architect, whose simple love of truth is not strong enough to 
keep in bounds a bragging tongue. So in gathering material for this 
article on the dog, I have met a few whose anecdotes were carried into 
a region where truth was such a small component part of the sur- 
roundings that the poor weak fledgling of my faith would not follow, 
and thus I am obliged to discard some of the most marvelous. The testi- 
mony of no saint or sinner has been admitted on this point who would 
not have been qualified to sit as a juror in the Beecher-Tilton scandal 
case, or who would not rather endure the full pressure of a completed 
Keely motor on every square inch of their body, than swerve the 
breadth of a gnat's eyebrow from the truth. 

Equine Sport 

Jay Coykendall et al bought a nondescript equine at a sale last 
spring. This animal had more fine points about him than the city of 
Boston, and Jay yearned to be the sole owner of the restless steed, so 
he bought out the other partners. On last Friday this fiery, untamed 
steed was harnessed to a delivery wagon, the other side of the tongue 
being occupied by a frisky steed owned by E. G. Fox. Harry Coyken- 
dall seized the ribbons with the calm assurance of a Budd Doble, while 



HUMOROUS 881 



Clate Trumbull mounted the seat beside him with an air that seemed 
to say: 

"Hope springs eternal in the human breast." 

than did these festive steeds skim over the ground. They reached 
the southern limit of the City in safety, turned back and were coming 
Crack went the whip, round went the wheels while 

"Not lighter does the swallow skim 
Along the smooth lake's level brim," 

down the home stretch at a pace indicating 2 :16 — or less. When ! 

"The trot becomes a gallop soon, 
In spite of bit and rein" 

The heels of Jay's charger became light as the "ethereal air," and he 
began to get in the wagon backward. Clate not wishing to interfere 
with the rights of even a horse got out and sat down on the ground. 
Harry clung to the ribbons with Spartan bravery till he was dragged 
from the wagon, but the noble chargers escaped. Clate took an inven- 
tory and found 391/4 square inches of cuticle missing from his anatomy. 
When Jay's steed got loose he cavorted like a yearling mule vrith a 
chestnut bur under his tail; yea, he scorned the control of man and 
hied him away to the prairie and spent the night cropping the juicy 
dandelion, and trampling the broad-leaved burdock under his hoof, 
while Jay rushed frantically over the wicked City exclaiming '*My 
furniture store for that horse." 

Wyne Garrison's Pony 

Wyne Garrison now has a pony. He is a meek appearing beast, 
and is rather angular for his size. His color is — well, now, we do not 
exactly get the word to appropriately convey an idea of the color of 
the brute. Perhaps if we were to say he is a cerulean blue, it would 
come pretty close to the mark, from the fact that we have no well defined 
conception of what cerulean blue really is, and that is just about the 
color of Wyne's pony. He is like the Dutchman said about his stray 
sheep, viz: "he vas built mit three white fore legs behint." Of course 
we are now speaking of the pony, not of Wyne. He bought the noble 
charger — of course we are now speaking of Wyne's — from that dis- 
tinguished citizen of Williamsfield, Joe Shaffer, consequently the pony 
is — to borrow a word from our respected friend, Dr. J. D. C. Hoit — 
"a buster." We have an impression that this pony is good for some- 
thing, but we do not know what it is. 



382 HUMOROUS 



The Circus 

On Saturday the great French & Co. 's Monster Circus exhibited 
here. The entire show came, on Friday night, from the favored town 
of Brimfield — favored in not having them stay until morning — in one 
old baggage car and two antiquated looking passenger coaches. The 
street parade consisted of a horse with a white mane and tail — the 
only white thing in the outfit — a dog riding a black pony, which he 
did well, a spotted horse, a black horse and two greasy specimens of 
circus manhood, together with five small boys — the latter, of course, 
belonging here. 

They had two tents, ten cents admitting to one, and fifty to the 
other. The day was splendid and quite a number were on the streets, 
though but few went in to see the performance. 

There was some kind of a wheel of fortune, where many people 
chose to relinquish their hard earned cash, for the poor privilege of 
trying to beat the owner of the wheel out of sundry tempting bank 
bills that he had fastened to a board. There was another chap, sleek 
as greased lightning, who manipulated a pyramid with nails driven 
into it so as to leave about one-half sticking out, covered with a cap, 
the cap having a hole in the top into which a marble is dropped, reach- 
ing a pocket at the bottom that is numbered to correspond with numbers 
in a show case containing the prizes, and he did a land office business. 

During the afternoon performance one of the women was slightly 
injured by her horse falling with her, while performing in the ring. 

Those who were in say the circus part was not an entire failure. 
Still if there be a town in Illinois that this particular show misses and 
they do not immediately appoint a day of thanksgiving in the churches, 
we will think that the town has no faith in a kind Providence whose 
watchful care has delivered its people from such a calamity as a visit 
from this show would be. 

After the performance the few traps were gathered together, 
tumbled into one corner of a car, the south bound passenger coupled on 
the old cars, and the outfit was away to spend Sunday in Farmington, 
and inflict the nauseating dose on her citizens on Monday. 

It may be possible that a little prejudice will be detected in this 
article by the reader. Indeed we suspect ourself of it now. But we 
beg the reader to remember that the provocation has been very great, 
for we had two comps, and we accidently dropped them out of our pocket 
while changing our clothes, the children found them, and having no 
judgment, owing to their tender years, went to the show, and returning, 
got off some of the stale gags used by the man who mocks a clown, and 
ever since we have had a terribly earnest desire to hear that a howling 
cyclone has struck a circus tent just after the people have left, and 



HUMOROUS 383 



before the clown has escaped. After all something worse might have 
struck the town — cyclone, smallpox, cholera — Oh ! we are glad it was 
no worse. 

Little Giants 

Saturday evening, just as we had gotten attired in our new store 
clothes, and had settled down to work — for a wonder — who should pop 
into our sacred den but A. R. Saunders and Editor S. P. Wood, of the 
Farmington Bugle. The boys said that they had come up to see John W. 
Dixon's new four-pound boy; but they made fun of us as if we were 
one of the common herd, and even claimed that they are better looking 
than we. The boys were here to see if the reports in regard to our big 
celebration were true. After running about the city for a time, they 
were convinced that Yates City is the place to come on the Third, and 
that Farmington will send up a large delegation. Saunders and Wood 
are not large in stature, but in all those qualities that go to make up the 
man they are giants. 

A Bedlam 

Monday night about nine o'clock, Yates City was a noisy town. 
There were three or four freight engines puffing and blowing off steam. 
John W. January was lifting his voice like a fog horn, in praise of 
some liver nostrom; several dogs whose lives had been spared for 
some reason not patent to the average mortal, were sitting on their 
haunches baying the moon in a manner that would have astonished 
Wm. Shakespeare himself; Mr. Thomas H. Cat, Esq., was out in force 
holding concerts in the open air, while two drunk men were making 
night hideous by their maudling bowlings in the alley behind the 
Jaquith place. Take it all-in-all, it was not a good time for quiet medi- 
tation, nor yet for spending an Hour Alone. 

A Modern Charioteer 

Andy Alpaugh has the most cantankerous team in the city. One 
of them is a strawberry roan with a round body and short legs; 
the other is an iron gray, with a long leg placed at each corner of him, 
and a body that resembles a "Devil's Needle." Sometimes Andy 
bestrides this beast, and when he does so and canters up the street he 
makes the ideal of an equestian statue of somebody, we do not remember 
just who. Tuesday morning Andy hitched these two firey, untamed 
steeds to a wagon, and placing himself on the spring seat he gave the 
word to "forward." The team was eager to obey, but they wanted 
to see how fast they could go. Andy laid back on the ribbons like an 
Ajax, but: 

"The trot became a gallop soon. 
In spite of word or rein." 



884 HUMOROUS 



In front of the postoffice J. A. Hensley sallied out to rescue Andy^ 
and when the team saw the stalwart form of the Kentuckian in front 
of them they became as peaceable as two young rabbits. 

If Andy persists in driving so much like Jehu of old, he will come 
to grief, and we will get a good item. 

Jerry Simpson's Socks 

While returning from Farmington, Wednesday evening, we met 
with an unexpected incident. While on the Burlington road, about one 
mile and a half west of the town, we found the place where Jerry 
Simpson, the sockless statesman of Kansas, originated. At least there 
were the socks, ragged and dirty, lying in the road. We are no longer 
surprised that Jerry then and there foreswore the useless covering for 
his feet, and determined to wiggle through the rest of life's pilgrimage 
sans socks. It used to be that a man who wore boots could not be 
elected school director, and he who could be proven guilty of combing 
his hair was ineligible to the office of pathmaster. But it was reserved 
for Jerry to demonstrate that the wearing of socks is a bar to the con- 
gress of the United States. The next time we visit Farmington we 
expect to find Thomas Montgomery's socks neatly folded beside those 
of the renowned Jerry. 

A Vicious Mare 

On Monday, while Wm. Johnson was driving his blooded mare 
to a light wagon, being engaged in moving the household goods of Mr. 
Burnett to the depot, she became restive, and getting beyond his con- 
trol she kicked the harness off, and got entirely loose from the rig. 
Johnson, who was perched on a high box, had a narrow escape from 
instant death, an incident that we are sorry to record. He succeeded 
in getting her pacified, and found that the breeching of the harness was 
a total wreck. Our opinion is the animal is a race horse in disguise, 
and we fear that she will yet do some great damage. 

A Strange Craft 

Monday evening the two worthies of the Farmington Bugle — ^Wood 
& Johnson — sighted the shores of Yates City, and soon dropped anchor 
in the placid waters in front of the Banner office. Their sailing craft 
was a one-horse-wagon, propelled by a flea-bitten gray tacky, aged 27 
years. On the quarter deck was a table, two chairs — in which were 
seated the two worthies — a basket of grapes, and two vacancies that 
looked as if they could only be filled by a spring chicken. P. S. — These 
vacancies had vests on. James Johnson was acting sailing master, and 
had a determined look, as if he would not hesitate to ascend to the tip- 



HUMOROUS 386 



top of the tacky 's back, if it became necessary to reef his fore-top. S. P. 
Wood was at the wheel — the fore wheel— and had just made an entry in 
the log, and as he hitched up his trousers, and took a tack in the star- 
board side of his tarpaulin he exclaimed : 

"We'll fling our banner to the breeze, 

Set every thread-bare sail, 
And trust her to the God of storms. 

The battle, and the gale." 

This inspiring quotation so fired the bosom of Johnson that he 
arose, spat on his hands, swung aloft a marlin-spike, and let it descend 
on the jib-boom of the old gray with such force that he dragged the 
anchor and sped away, bounding over the wavy crossings like a thing 
of life, until the hull (here used for whole) disappeared below the dim 
line of the horizon, and the precious argosy was lost to sight, while the 
sound of a Bugle came floating back on the gentle evening zephyr in 
tremulous tones, the refrain of which seemed to be: 

"Oh! That the delinquent subscriber would come, 

With the pumpkins, and taters, and corn; 
If he don't we'll be ragged as any old bum, 

That crawls out the small end of the horn." 

Jack's One-Legged Rooster 

A. J. Coykendall moumeth like a Whangdoodle. His flock of poultry 
consisted of one rooster that neither laid eggs nor raised chicks. He 
was minus one leg, and so went on the half scratch. When or how he 
lost his leg is not stated. It may be he lost it in battle, or may be some 
irate garden owner took it off while he was scratching out onions on 
forbidden ground, but certain it is he had but one leg, while all the 
world knows that any well regulated rooster should have two. Jack 
missed his familiar crow Wednesday morning, and going out to learn 
the reason, found him a cold corpus, not only in the jaws of death, but 
in the jaws of Ed. Boring's dog as well. Jack thinks it is a clear case 
of rooster murder, and charges the dog with the crime. We incline 
to the opinion that it was a suicide, or more properly speaking, a rooster 
end. It was not a good morning for democratic roosters anyway, and 
a democratic rooster that had but one leg to stand on before election, 
certainly had little inducement to longer scratch with but one set of 
toes. 

Ground Hog Day 

Tuesday was ground hog day. We are aware that some dispute 
this fact, and put in certain claims that Wednesday was the day. We 
give no sort of credence to these claims, nor do we admit any of the 



386 HUMOROUS 



arguments set up in support of that theory. We know that Tuesday, 
February 2, was ground hog day, and the ground hog knows it, and 
that settles the matter. All the arguments that could be adduced from 
now until the "crack o' doom" could not change the fact, and if all the 
world should declare otherwise, it would merely be an admission that 
all the world was mistaken. Now this should settle a vexed question, 
much as the edict of an emperor, or that more pretentious, though per- 
haps not least potent, document, the Pope's bull. Having thus settled 
this vexed controversy, for we take it that the world will not be stub- 
born enough to longer maintain what we do not believe, and what we 
have taken the pains to thus controvert, we will proceed to say that 
Tuesday was a most auspicious ground hog day. He came out of his 
hole, but not seeing his shadow, he did not go back, and at this blessed 
moment he is roaming like the free and independent tramp, at his own 
sweet will. This is great news for the farmer. It indicates that the 
ground hog has joined the Alliance, and that Simpson, Peffer, Ground 
Hog, et al, are all combined to compel prosperity to sit on the door step 
of every granger. 

Our Prognosticator 

The last time that we referred to the good Deacon Philbee in this 
Great Moral Pendulum, we lost a valued subscriber — that is we valued 
him at $1.50 per year. But there was a pesky difficulty, an hereditary 
feud, a vendetta a la Kentucky, existing between our valued subscriber 
■ — to the extent of $1.50 — and the good Deacon, and so the circulation 
of the Great Moral Pendulum was dwindled to the extent of one. We 
then made a solemn cuss that Philbee should not again be mentioned in 
our columns until we got another subscriber. Fifteen weary months 
have passed, and last week we added a new name to our list, and now 
we are free from our rash cuss, and can say that, as a weather prog- 
nosticator, Mr, Philbee, in our estimation, stands head and shoulders 
above all his contemporaries. We are aware that M, S. Jordan shows 
a wonderful aptitude in planetary lore, and has made a profound study 
of equinoxes and paralaxes, and stellar precessions, but he lacks the 
aplomb, the sang froid, the fortiter in re that distinguishes Philbee, 
and like Philip Ray, in Enoch Arden, he must be content to be "a 
little after" Philbee. Our faith in Philbee is a living, vital, growing 
principle. Has he not told us that he has laid awake in order to study 
the muskrat, the goose bone, the corn husk, the hog melt and the thick 
bark on the north side of the giant oak, and is there not an unction about 
the old man "ye '11 scarcely find in ony." Well, we guess yes! And 
then did he not tell us — and that only a few days ago — that he was of 
the opinion that the first part of this winter had been mild and salu- 
brious, and that if the same kind of weather continued for three months 
longer that the last part would be precisely like the first part only more 



HUMOROUS 887 



so. We have kept strict watch of Philbee's prognostications for almost 
a quarter of a century, and we can testify that he always hit it if he 
didn't miss it. In fact, Mr. Philbee's weather predictions remind us of 
the way the Irishman ssi'^ Tip shot the porcupine. ''Be jabers I treed 
him under the hay stack and shot him with the barn shovel. The first 
time I hit him I missed him, and the second time I hit him right where 
I missed him the first time." 

Another Dream Vanished 

This is a vile world. We did not originate this idea, nor did we 
even discover it ; but it is just as true as though we had. For years we 
have been searching for a life work ; some mission that would not only 
make Yates City a great and important metropolis, and her traders 
merchant princes, but would also place our toes in the top niche of 
fame and cause our fellow citizens, after our demise, to drive a smooth 
board at the head of the first real estate that we could call our own, 
and inscribe on it, ' ' Here lies the old cuss who blazed the way to great- 
ness for others, but missed it himself." We thought we had found it. 
We saw that Yates City was much like a sick kitten, or a lousy calf, or 
a mangy pup, or a boy who has just taken his first smoke ; there was 
something the matter with her. We diagnosed the case, located the 
trouble, and then we set out to discover the remedy. One day, some 
three weeks ago, we jumped three feet from our chair and exclaimed, 
"Eureka!" We would come to the help of our merchants, and induce 
all our people to trade at home. Our articles are part of the history 
of this town. So red hot were they, so vehement, so fierce, so caustic, 
so convincing that several persons had formed themselves into an 
oathbound society, and taken a solemn oath never to get half a mile 
from Yates City, no odds what the inducement might be ; others were 
about to foreswear "the illicit rove," and even some of the most 
inveterate old codgers, when they were returning from Elmwood with 
contraband purchases, would sneak down the back alleys in order to 
escape our eagle gaze. We were looking forward to a grand banquet 
that we felt sure our merchants would tender — yes, we believe that 
"tender" is the proper word — us when we had succeeded in making 
every saint and sinner, good, bad and indifferent, trade at home, and 
we had just entered the post office to purchase a pencil that we in- 
tended to devote to the cause to which we felt we were wedded, when, 
what do you suppose we saw? It was a large advertising card, gotten 
up by a man from another town, and two-thirds of our merchants had 
paid him two dollars each for a small space. It took away our breath ; 
it caused a polar wave to make a detour down our spinal cord; it 
cooled our ardor. We went out a firm believer in total depravity. 
How could we write an article pleading with people to trade with 



388 HUMOROUS 



merchants who themselves take the first opportunity to spend their 
money with a foreign trader? We are done for. That bright vision 
of a smooth board at our grave had faded like a maiden's dream of 
love. It is said that Dogberry wanted to "Write himself down an 
ass." What have these merchants done? They have advertised as a 
whole pasture filled with something that might rise to the sireship of 
a long-eared horse. In some other line we may yet rise to eminence, 
but in that great battle in which gain was to come to our merchants 
we feel that the flash of our sword will not light the path to victory. 

Editor Brown 

Editor Alson J. Brown, of the Farmington Home Visitor, has not 
climbed the golden stairs yet, but Monday, about the hour of 11 :30 
a. m., he did climb the stairs leading to the Banner office. He came 
over to meet his daughter, Mrs. Ben. Wallich, of Prairie City, who 
was going home on a visit, and did not wish to wait for a train. We 
just got a glimpse of Brown. That glimpse assured us that he is 
handsome, intellectual, erudite, gallant, brave and honest. But we did 
not like his visit. He made it too short — something like the fly did 
when it alighted on the hot stove. In fact, his visit was brief, like 
Finnigan's report which ran "Aff agin, on agin, gone agin. Finni- 
gan." Brown didn't even try to make us glad when he left. 

A Mistake 

Last Saturday evening we discovered that we had a number of 
very interested friends in this city. We cannot afford to name them, 
because there are several, and it would be invidious to particularize, 
where all had done so much to assist us while enemies were mali- 
ciously endeavoring to have us indicted. We are ashamed of ourselves 
to think that we did not find out what they were doing for us until after 
the case was settled in our favor. We are now satisfied that we made 
a mistake in taking any trouble in the matter at all ourselves. But 
there can be no mistake about it, for they told us that they did much, 
and that settles it. True, we did not discover it until the contest was 
over, but this we attribute entirely to our lack of perception. Had 
we been sharp enough to know how they were moving heaven and 
earth to serve us, we, and some other friends, might have rested easy. 
Mark Twain once said, in speaking of a man who was elected to a 
high office from his town, that there were two great men in the town, 
the one elected and himself, but that he had succeeded in keeping the 
fact of his greatness hid better than the other man had. This is the 
way with our friends. There were two classes of them, and this class 
succeeded admirably in keeping us from finding out that they were 
on our side. We can say of these friends as the old negro woman 



HUMOROUS 889 



did of the distinguished visitor to whom she got an introduction. She 
was much embarrassed, and feeling that she should say something, she 
said: "Glad to meet you. I hope to have a better opinion of you." 
This is how we feel toward those friends ; we hope to have a better 
opinion of them. What we intended to do was to thank these friends, 
and congratulate them in their success in keeping the side they were 
on such a profound secret that no mortal discovered it until they told 
it after the battle was fought and the victory won, and if we have 
not succeeded we beg their pardon most humbly. 

John Downs 

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, stand 
back and give small folks a chance to see what is going on. We are 
ready to depart and get tickets for a harp and crown. We have seen 
the pink of the whole Democratic camp. It was the poet orator, of 
Peoria, and John Downs is his name. He came among us like a 
benediction, on Saturday afternoon, and he left a great streak of 
democracy and poesy hanging over the city, so that one might go 
up and cut off a chunk, just as we used to cut off a slice of dried 
beef that hung from the rafter in the happy days of long ago. John 
is a sort of corruscating oracle of the great and good democracy. He 
is never weary in well doing, but he orates and sings, sings and orates, 
just as though the pillars of democracy rested on his broad shoulders. 
We are blest in having seen John. 

An Accommodating Squire 

Yates City has one of the most accommodating squires in the 
world. A week or two ago a young man called on him and inquired 
what he would charge to perform the marriage ceremony for him and 
his best girl. Jim told him that as he was a hard working boy, he 
would not charge him more than one dollar. The young man said, 
"All right," and in a short time appeared at the Hensley mansion 
with the blushing bride and future mother-in-law. Jim proceeded 
to tie the knot in the most approved manner and latest style, and at 
the conclusion the young man called him to one side and said: "I 
haven't got the one dollar, but will pay you on Monday." The groom 
stood silent for a moment, and the squire thought he was pondering 
over the good advice he had given him a few moments before, and was 
congratulating himself that the young man would make one of the 
most loving and exemplary of husbands, when he was a little taken 
down by the new head of the prospective household suddenly saying: 
"You couldn't let me have seventy-five cents to take me up to Oak 
Hill, could you?" The good squire dug down in his "jeans" and 
fished up a half dollar which he lent, added his blessing, wished the 
young couple "much joy," threw in a parting benediction, and started 



890 HUMOROUS 



two hitherto divided hearts down the declivity of time with only one 
perceptible "beat." 

The Town Cow 

In our opinion there can be no genuine revival of religion in this 
community as long as cows are permitted to run loose in the street 
during winter. You may convert a granger in the spring, and he may 
be a consistent Christian during the summer; he may even wiggle 
along past Thanksgiving, or even the holidays. But when the first 
snow falls and he comes to town in his sled or sleigh, and in a few 
minutes finds one or more old lank, lean, vicious looking cows clean- 
ing the hay out of his rig, and chewing the corner of his robe or 
blankets, we do not believe that it is possible for him not to swear. 
No, sir; you may boost the average granger so near the heavenly 
kingdom that he can almost smell the fruit on the other shore ; but the 
sight of the diabolical old town cow calmly and complacently munch- 
ing hay out of his sled will yank him so near to the domains of his 
Satanic majesty that the nap on his chinchilla beaver coat will smell 
mighty strong of brimstone. In fact, we think it a moral impossibility 
for a granger not to swear at the town cow. 

Drove Too Fast 

Last Sunday some of our horsemen got mixed up in a race with 
their horses and buggies, and as the home stretch happened to be 
inside the corporate limits of Yates City, and on the main street, the 
powers that be found that the ordinance was not only bent, but badly 
twisted, and they called on the offenders to contribute something 
toward salving the wounded dignity of the city, and help in straight- 
ening the bent ordinance. On Monday L. C. Kennedy, George Dimick, 
and a Mr. Riner, the latter from Elmwood, came up, plead guilty, 
and dropped something over $12 into the city fund. Lee Cummings 
of Williamsfield, was with the boys, but he has not yet settled. In 
the race Kennedy smashed a wheel on his buggy. This is a warning 
to all and sundry, that if they wish to imitate Jehu, the son of Nirashi, 
they had better get out into the country, where the inhabitants wear 
wide-toed shoes, the bull belloweth with impunity and the polecat 
perfumeth the evening zephyrs. 

The Latest Arrival 

"We have a baby in the house, 

A little man of ten; 
Who dearer to his mother is 

Than all God's little men." 

Common folks want to stand back; be careful how you set up 
your yawp; this town is growing, and don't you never forget it; an- 



HUMOROUS 391 



other painter, grainer and paper hanger has been added to our list; 
he arrived by the old reliable route, and reached the city about the 
hour of high noon, on Tuesday, February 23, 1886, just one day behind 
the birthday of the father of his country. For the same reason those 
of the same trade affiliate everywhere, he first called on Frank T. 
Corbin. He is the light weight champion of Yates City, tipping the 
beam at 814 pounds, and he has never yet been whipped. He has 
gone into partnership with F. T. for twenty-one years, and then he 
will vote the straight, simon pure, unadulterated Republican ticket. 
Frank's wife — formerly Miss Sadie Whited — claims a half interest 
in the new painter. 

That Watch 

Last week when this great moral pendulum was obliged to go 
to press in order that its 700,000 — or less — readers might not be left 
without good Sunday reading, this town was all torn up, ripped up the 
back, so to speak, by a watch contest. It was to have been settled 
Saturday night, but it was postponed until Monday night, thus giving 
the church members time to pray over it, or else for some other wise 
reason. At any rate it was put off until Monday night. There were 
some scattering votes cast for persons who promptly forbade the use of 
their names for the contest, and these were not given. There were 
1,519 votes cast, as follows : 

May Maxwell, 402; Lizzie Spickard, 386; Stella Boyes, 367; Loa 
Coykendall, 364. 

That Rooster 

The boys who run the chicken ranch brought us in a rooster 
on Wednesday. They said he was sent by R. G. Mathews, and that he 
was a this year's chicken. He was a dominique, sans tail, sans comb, 
sans everything except spurs, and of these he had at least five inches 
on each leg. We gave this tender bird over to the mercies of John 
Brimmer. We are sorry that this bird can't talk, because we are 
confident that if he could, he could settle the question of the deluge, 
and where the ark really did rest. He is undoubtedly the same rooster 
that woke M. H. Pease the first night he spent in Illinois. 

Base, Heartless World 

The world — base, heartless world — has not ceased laughing at 
Dogberry, who insisted on writing himself down an ass. But last week 
we succeeded in writing ourselves down a plain, bald-headed liar. 
Now, it must be patent to every reflective mind that a man who tells 
bald-headed lies is on a lower plane than is any well regulated jackass 



392 HUMOROUS 



that ever lopped his lazy but honest and lengthy ears in a thistle 
patch. It was on this wise : We stated in this great moral pendulum 
that Henry Larson would move his shoe shop to the room in the west 
end of the building occupied by Ed Taylor's barber shop. It was not 
true ; therefore it was a lie. We do not feel like humiliating our- 
selves — there is but one of us — by further apology this week, and will 
now state that Henry Larson will move his shoe shop to the room in 
the south end of the Farmers' Bank building, and may he continue to 
put good leather in his soles. 

The Fourth of 1858 

In another part of this paper will be found an article, sent to 
the Banner by David Corbin, giving some history of the first Fourth 
of July celebration held in Yates City, which was in 1858. In this 
article is mentioned the music, furnished by one whom he calls our 
warrior fifer, we presume because he afterward was in request as a 
fifer during the time the soldiers were being recruited for the war 
of the rebellion. The statement is also made that there was drum 
"accompaniments." M. Knable informs us that the drummers were an 
old blacksmith named Winchel, and Bob Miller, and states that as 
soon as dinner was announced, Miller threw away his drum and made 
a bee line for the table. 

The name of the orator of the day is not given and we have not 
yet been able to find any one who can remember who it was. It seems 
strange that one who yanked the tail of the British Lion, and caused 
the "American Boiled Owl" to screech in very glee, should have been 
forgotten in fifty years. But such is fame, and it serves to emphasize 
that sage remark of Rip Van Winkle, "Are we so soon forgotten when 
we're gone?" We are sure that some of the older readers of the 
Banner will read the article with interest. 

The Yaller Dog 

North of Yates City lives an old farmer whom we will call Potts. 
And if any one wishes to write his initials, let them call him Henry, 
as it will do as well as any other. His wife bought a nice new copper 
wash boiler in Yates City, paying $4.50 for it. She had used it but 
a few times, and set it on a bench in the yard, and forgot to bring it 
in at night. Now some cantankerous, lousy, mangy cur dog had been 
bothering Potts for some time, and he swore a solemn swear more 
than a yard in length, that the next time he came on the premises at 
night he should be left ready for the bologna mill. So he loaded both 
barrels of an old blunderbus to the muzzles, and listened. He was 



HUMOROUS 898 



rewarded ; he heard a noise ; he slipped out, crept silently around the 
house, saw a form looming up, fired both barrels and — riddled the new 
wash boiler so full of holes that it could not even be used for a strainer. 
Andrew Jackson Donaldson Coykendall bought the remains at 2i/2 
cents per pound. Mrs. Potts has a new boiler, and Mr, Potts knows 
more than he did about "yaller" dogs. 

A Sad Case 

Last Saturday we went to Farmington, and called on Brother 
Wilson, the sad and lonely grass widow of the Bugle, whose sad looks 
sent a bitter pang even into our gizzard. We tried to wean his 
thoughts by a reference to Invisible Green's fish slander. He said he 
knew and pitied the simplicity of Invisible Green, who, no doubt, 
meant well, but evidently was directing others in the road where his 
own most brilliant deeds overtook him; but, added he, "Green is safe 
until Mrs. Bugle returns. ' ' We knew then that we had struck a heftier 
chunk of grief than we understood, so we glode, slode and strode out, 
feeling that but a scurvy wretch would say fish in the shadow of such 
woe. 

Took Some 

Andy Alpaugh took an enormous dose of Wizard oil last week, 
and it doubled him up like a wagon jack, unjointed his neck, dislocated 
his spine, loosened his toe nails, and almost shook his confidence in 
his pet theory of the flatness of the earth. The reason he took so much 
was because the medicine man gave it to him free gratis, for nothing, 
without a cent, and told him it was a good thing; and Andy has 
always believed that he could not get too much of a good thing. Andy 
says he intended to set that particular dose of Wizard oil to wrestling 
with the rheumatism, but he thinks the plaguey stuff took a fall out 
of him. It is ever thus, the good seem destined to come to grief, even 
as the sparks hustleth up the flue. 

Identifying Portraits 

On Monday that prince of prevaricators, Andrew Jackson Don- 
aldson Coydendall, ex-California pioneer, ex-Colorado explorer, boss 
auctioner for the people of the great state of Illinois, Grand Mogul 
of the Chicken Peelers, most noted of all the peregrinating tin mer- 
chants, and sole and only man in the state whose birthday is a mov- 
able date, came into this office and was looking over a copy of the 
History of Fulton County, when E. H. West came in, and noticing 
the portraits in the work, asked Uncle Jack if he knew them all. 
"Know them," said Jack, "why, you may cover up the names, and I 
will tell you who they are as fast as you can turn to them." E, H. 



394 HUMOROUS 



said he would test Jack's knowledge in that direction, and he went 
through the book, and Jack knew three, sort of guessed at the fourth, 
and made a clear miss of the remainder. This would have downed 
any common liar, but Uncle Jack is a thoroughbred, and don't you 
forget it. 

As to Population 

Yates City has taken no real census, but Sam Weir got Deacon 
Spickard to guess on the population, and the Deacon solemnly avers 
that after looking at the matter from both sides, and then perambulat- 
ing down the middle, he is satisfied that the population of Yates City 
amounts to some, if not more. In this conclusion the good Deacon kept 
strictly within the limits of the corporation. This does not include 
Douglas nor Uniontown, where several more people reside. If the 
towns on the Q. south to Canton, west to Knoxville, and east to Peoria, 
were counted it would add materially to the splendid showing here 
given. As it is, Yates City is shown to be larger than any other town 
of half its size. Boost Yates City. 

Scorching "Winthrop" . 

Nearly all our readers remember A. M. Swan. Ame Babcock 
secured him a clerkship in some department at Washington, during 
the first part of Lincoln 's administration. He was five-tenths pure wind, 
four-tenths cheek and one-tenth audacity. He used to be on familiar 
terms — if his own word was believed — with all foreign ministers, states- 
men and generals on both the Confederate and the Federal sides. It is 
not probable that he ever spoke to half a dozen of these celebrities in 
his life, but some were so charitable as to say that Swan had told these 
lies so long that he actually believed that these were veritable occur- 
rences. The Peoria Journal has a correspondent at Washington whose 
assumed name is "Winthrop," who has all of Swan's qualities except 
his ability. He gravely states, in a recent letter, in speaking of the late 
A. J. Bell, the following: "It was some time before I discovered any- 
thing in him, and I shall always have to regret that my first allusions to 
him in my correspondence were far from being complimentary." Ye 
gods ! that such a man as Winthrop should pen these words ; and that, 
too, just after he had related a transcendent joke that he perpetrated 
on Senator Palmer, after he had been sworn into office, by telling him 
that ' ' I had great confidence now in the results of his senatorial career. ' ' 
And he remarks that Palmer "smiled audibly;" that is, we are led to 
conclude, he laughed right out. Well, for the life of us we do not see 
how the senator could have helped the "audible smile," if he got even 
a glimpse of this rubber-up-against-great-men, if he has not changed 
since his red hair shined through the fogs in Pontiac. And by Jove! 



HUMOROUS 395 



only to think that he did not at first discover anything in A. J. Bell! 
And he "regrets it." Ah, vain regret! It comes too late to benefit 
that true and noble man who has gone to join the great majority, 
and whose body rests so calmly in the sacred precincts of Springdale 
Cemetery, What might have been the career of A. J. Bell had not this 
fawner at-the-feet-of-greatness, in a moment of weakness, no doubt, a 
weakness that pertains to humanity, and more to greatness, "failed 
to discover anything in him for some time." We regret it ourselves, 
regret it so bitterly, so mournfully, so sadly that a tell-tale moisture 
dims our eye, — not for him whose death we have so recently mourned — 
no, not for him, — but simply and solely because this admission of weak- 
ness on the part of "Winthrop," shatters our cherished idol, before 
whom we bowed in adoration, and in whom we implicitly believed; we 
can only console ourselves now by the reflection that the character of 
Christ is the only perfect one that history records, and that ' * Winthrop ' ' 
— probably by an oversight on his part — has never claimed that he 
talked familiarly with the Saviour while He was on the earth. 

Not Justice 

If we are disposed to question that ' ' There is no excellence without 
great labor," let us turn to the picture of poor old Galileo, kneeling 
in the presence of the inquisition, and solemnly declaring that he did not 
believe what he knew to be absolutely true. Let us read the story of 
Eli Whitney, the inventor of the cotton gin; let us note John Fitch 
dying broken hearted and alone ; let us observe the struggles of Guten- 
berg, fleeing from his enemies and finally dying in poverty; let us gaze 
on the destitution of Howe, as he shivers in a cheerless London garret, 
hungry and utterly dejected, and after his return to America behold 
him begging for means to enable him to reach the bedside of his dying 
wife. The world has not recognized its greatest benefactors in the 
hour when such recognition would have benefited them. 

The Spectacle Man 

Wednesday the City was visited by an itinerant spectacle man. He 
did not meet with success; indeed nothing but high living injures the 
eyesight, and no one lives high in Yates City; (our eyes are in splendid 
condition). He lost faith in the town; he waxed wroth; he belted 
M. Bird, our hotel man, lively at every place he stopped; he said we 
did not have a first class house in the City. At length he got into 
Fox's store, and awoke the ire of the senior Fox, who proceeded to 
preach his funeral sermon for him, and, we are told, did him a good 
job, giving Mr. Itinerant just what he needed, a good "setting down." 
Mr. Spectacles then came to the Banner office to be consoled; we con- 



396 HUMOROUS 



soled him; we told him that Fox was in the habit of talking just 
that way to every fool who struck the town, and if he could not be 
induced to desist we feared that first class idiots would cease to visit 
the town. He wept when he thought what a calamity that would be. 
He left for Maquon on the 5:20 express; didn't even wait for supper. 
Look out for him, other towns ! And if you have anything good to eat, 
set it out to him. How will you know him ? Bless me ! Don 't you know 
a gentleman by instinct? If you don't you can tell him by his other 
stink, it is so much like a smoking car stink. 

He is tall and finely built — so finely that when he stands edge- 
wise you can hardly see him; and his legs are swollen, so much so that 
they are nearly as large as knitting-needles; and then in the clutch 
of his bony hand rests a grip-sack. Oh ! You would know him anywhere. 
But beware if you meet him in Chicago; he would not fight in Yates 
City ; no room to bury dead men here ; but in Chicago — Ah ! Fox, 
beware of Spectacles if you meet him in Chicago. 

About Bath Tubs 

"We are told that there is a paper published at Maquon called * ' The 
Tomahawk" — it should have been called "The Maul," which would be 
much more appropriate. The editor is trying to get in the same class 
with Victor Rosewater of the Omaha Bee, but he seems to lack the 
ability. Some one happened to mention a bath-tub in his hearing, and 
having no knowledge of what it was, he wrote what he called an article, 
stating that a barber in Yates City had caught a bath-tub (he evidently 
had the idea that they run wild somewhere), and that he had it at the 
shop, and that he nor his assistant could shave a man, for a week, they 
were so busy explaining the thing to their customers. 

It is true there are no bath-tubs in the Yates City barber shops. 
They are not needed. Every family in this city has a private bath- 
tub, and they take their bath before coming up town. It would be con- 
sidered very bad taste for a number of people to "sopple" in the same 
bath-tub, in this place. We had supposed that the only animal that 
wallowed in the same puddle was the hog, but since hearing of this 
Tomahawk screed, we are wondering if we have not been mistaken. 

Badly Used 

Two young braves from Yates City, whose hearts were full to burst- 
ing with love for two fair damsels of Maquon, hired a livery rig and 
determined to bask, for one evening in "Love's young dream." But 
alas! The Maquon boys tumbled to their racket, and so it was that 
about the hour when John and Jake expected to be in clover, the boys 
sailed in. Jake drew a long breath, made a solemn promise that if 



HUMOROUS 897 



he got safe home to his ma, he would never, never be caught hankering 
after the pouting lips and coy bangs of a Maquon lass. But prompt 
action was a necessity, and so Jake lifted up his voice and warned John 
saying: John, John, the "Philistines be upon us." And it was even so, 
for a large number of the uncircumcised fell upon them with rock, stick, 
coal and mud. And the boys made great haste and got them out of 
town, and returned to Yates City, weeping as they went and saying, 
Alas! Alas. 

Fixing Responsibility 

A report got into circulation that W. G. Lehman, our worthy 
postmaster, had chopped down a large tree for a telephone pole. In 
trying to prove the truth of this report we interviewed L. D. Fletcher, 
our hustling lumber merchant, and he insists that he did some chop- 
ping on that same tree himself. Our own opinion is that when the man 
who actually did chop down that tree is finally discovered beyond a 
doubt, it will be found that it was either Pete Garrison or J. W, Dixon, 
and all the indications now point to Dixon as the man. 

The Song He Sang 

In a write up of the 0. S. E. surprise party for Mr. and Mrs. 

Wilson Adams, which appeared in the Banner, some two weeks ago, it 

was stated that Dr. H. J. Hensley did some artistic singing. We are 

now able to lay before the delighted reader the words of his song, as 

follows : 

"There was a man, he had two sons. 

And both of them were brothers, 

Tobias was the name of one, 

Bohunkus was the other." 



Our "Devil" 

Our "devil" went off on a bender, this week, and was gone three 
days. On his return he handed in the lines given below, and claimed 
that they were given to him by some one. We have suspected for some 
time that the youth was going to the bad, and we are glad that it 
resulted in nothing more serious, as, for some time, we were afraid that 
some of the Yates City girls had "mashed" him with their red stock- 
ings: 

"The Bugle man he blew a blast. 

That blast it was a blizzard. 
But the reaction was so great. 

That it burst the Bugle's gizzard." 



398 HUMOROUS 



Authentic Anecdotes of Dogs. 

Nubbin Ridge, July 27, 1880. 

Mrs. Raca was my neighbor while living in Salem township, Knox 
county. She was the happy possessor of a squatty looking dog whose 
family traits were so completely covered by extreme ugliness that I 
never could make out to what particular species he belonged. His 
chief recommendation consisted in the fact that he had been to Michigan 
twice. This lady had four children, and she informed me that the dog 
had had the chief care and management of them. After I got fully 
acquainted with the children I never doubted it for a moment. She 
said that dog would permit no one, not even the father, to lay a finger 
on the baby; I think he made a difference when you took the whole 
hand for I have seen dozens of people handle the child and the dog 
did not appear to notice it. If that dog could only have been a little 
different, and permitted no one but the father to touch the child, I 
think he would have been the illustrious head of a useful family of 
dogs. In that case every women could own such a dog, and in cases 
of doubtful parentage the gentlemen could be marched up in single 
file and he who could lay his finger on the baby without having a right 
smart chunk bit out of the calf of his leg, could be made to provide for 
said baby. The only drawback I see to this would be that many married 
men would keep the youngest child 's dress soiled by laying their fingers 
on it, with one eye on the dog, just to see how he would act. But then, 
I wouldn't let my wife see me try that. No, not for half the gold in 
the Black Hills. And it may be as well such dogs don 't exist. 

When Mrs. Raca first visited me the dog always came along; I 
asked her why she let him follow. 

** Bless you," said she, "you can't keep him at home." 

"Shut him up in the house," said I. 

"Oh my," said she, "you might do that, and I warrant he 
would get out some how and be here in five minutes. No you can't keep 
him in the house if that child is gone." 

That summer I received a visit from a friend of mine, named 
Harry Symons. Now Harry was perfectly tractable on everything but 
dogs; but it had to be a very fine looking dog that Harry wouldn't 
rather shoot than to eat oysters (and few oysters spoil around Yates 
City). Harry was coming for a few days of squirrel hunting, and I 
warned Mrs. Raca not to let her dog get in his way or he might shoot 
it before I was aware of it. One day she came down and while we 
were talking I heard the report of Harry's gun, and the sudden yelping 
of a dog. I sprang from my seat exclaiming, "Mrs. Raca, I'll bet he has 
killed Slip!" 

"That can't be," said she, "for I shut him in the house and I know 
he can't be here." 



HUMOROUS 399 



I looked around; that child was with her; true politeness forbade 
me asking- how he could be kept in the house and that child gone — 
instinct must have warned him of danger and he remained of his own 
accord. 

Pease Hill 

Fame never comes single. We don't remember the author of the 
above, and if you can't just attribute it to us. It will only be another 
attribute to those already there. No, sir ; fame never comes by himself ; 
he generally hustles around and invites some of his bosom friends to 
come with him, so there is mostly two of him at once. This is verified 
in the every day trot and chin jabber of nearly every one. No sooner 
did Pease Hill become prominent as the prospective future depository of 
the Chase-Townley wealth — or the Townley-Chase wealth perhaps — but 
no matter, there is a chase to it somehow, and it promises to be the long- 
est chase of the whole Chase family — and Pease was beginning to stick 
up head and shoulders above his fellows, after the style of Saul among 
the Israelites — or for the benefit of those who are skeptical on Bible 
stories, we will say after the manner of Romeo Bill among the common 
herd in Yates City — and the Hill was looming up like the minarets of 
Constantinople, Pike's Peak, or the mound near the village of Elmwood 
did to her citizens while Ed. Phelps and Dr. A. J. Graham were chasing 
the late lamented Commissioners to locate the Soldiers' Home over the 
state and talking them as blind as a whole family of bats, than another 
event occurred to make the locality historical ground. Of course every- 
one knew that Pease was on the Hill ; that, like the Irishman who carried 
the banner with the strange scribbling onto it, he had climbed to the 
''very tiptop, be jabers." But there were few who were aware that 
Oscar Williamson was there pursuing happiness and enjoying liberty, 
subject only to such restrictions as a good wife imposed ; or yet that 
Joe Williams was out there hewing down the primeval timber on 
weekdays and cutting into the affections of the susceptible country 
damsels on Sundays; or that John Barnhill is a happy granger who 
drives his team afield in the summer, and rides in a bobsled in winter, 
varying the monotony by waging war on the bold velvet weed, the 
sneaking and insidious cockle bur, studying the subtile and mysterious 
hog cholera, and chasing the wild and dangerous potato bug on his 
native Hill. But the happenings of last Sunday night are likely to 
spread a knowledge of these facts. Oscar Williamson has rented Sam 
Conver 's farm out in the wilds of Nebraska. He goes there in the spring 
and expects to encounter the fierce grasshopper, the dauntless rattle- 
snake, the sneaking coyote and the treacherous Indian. In order to be 
prepared he had read all day Sunday in a book entitled "The Border 
Ruffian, or the Lithe and Supple Commanche Chief. ' ' It had unsettled 
his nerves a little; but when the holy calm of that beautiful Sabbath 



400 HUMOROUS 



eve settled about him, and he had slopped the pigs, read the lesson leaf 
for next Sunday, given the calf some milk and meal, prayed for good 
crops in Nebraska next year, and foddered the colts, he went in and 
sat down by the stove. With visions of border dangers flitting through 
his brain he fell into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by 
a sonorous rap at the door. He sprang up, grabbed his trusty firelock, 
rushed to the door — thinking all the time that he was out on Sam 's farm 
— opened it and met the terrible apparition of a veritable Indian that 
he supposed to be the vanguard of twenty-seven other bloodthirsty sav- 
ages, and he decided to sell his life as dearly as possible. He called to 
the chief to hold up his hands, and at once opened fire ; the first shot 
carried away a piece of the chief's ear about five by seven inches, the 
rest of the charge lodging in the body of a full blood Polled Galloway 
calf, that was contentedly chewing its cud, down by the gate, and it 
yielded up the ghost, costing Pease $97.32 hy the yield. The chief was 
so frightened that he could not have picked himself out from among a 
lot of red stockings filled with saw dust; but he recovered speech 
before Williamson got in the second broadside and his voice sounded 
so much like a white man's that he lowered his gun, and behold it was 
John Barnhill, who had come over to get him to help butcher the next 
day. They swapped explanations and apologies, and soon the two 
warriors were eating salt and smoking the pipe of peace. We learn 
that Mr. Williamson gives the following as his version of the affair: 
Joe had gone out; he heard the rap, supposed it was Joe trying to fool 
him, thought he would scare Joe and have some fun, got the gun, opened 
the door, presented the weapon and ordered him to hold up his hands, 
before he noticed it was Mr. Barnhill. It may be this is the true story, 
but it is not half so good as the one we have given above, and which 
we have from a person whose parents were poor, but honest. 

A Sneaking Coward 

The Banner editor acknowledges the receipt of a card, on one side 
of which is the cut of a large jug of whiskey — at least it is labeled 
"Peoria Co. Club Whiskey." On the reverse side are four verses of 
soulful poetry, reminding this insignificant editor that he has slandered 
someone, that it is naughty to do so, and hinting that all may have 
their faults, but that the old are especially full of faults — especially 
any old cuss who persists in mistaking himself for an editor. We 
feel sure that the sender is stuck on truth and poetry. And it may 
be that the sender, he, she, or it — probably the latter — is up in G on 
truth, but shiver our timbers if we don't believe there is a deficiency in 
their conception of poetry, else they could not have selected verses hav- 
ing one half the feet too short, and the other half too long. It pains us 
to see even a driveling poem limping, and "tears, unbidden flow." 



HUMOROUS 401 



Have a care, there, our foe incog, heart failure troubles us, and one 
more jolt like this might snuff our vital spark. But in that dying hour, 
as earth recedes, and heaven comes in sight — or Clootie's horrid den 
looms just before — may we stand boldly erect, and our last utterance 
from this faltering tongue be: "Thank God we were no sneaking cow- 
ard, but fought a manly, open fight," 

Slanders Old Ben 

Week before last we Avere told that Dr. W. T. Royce's horse ran 
away, and spread the doctor around promiscuously and demolished his 
sleigh. Then again we were told that Dr. W, T. Royce was seen with 
a dilapidated set of harness on his shoulder making his way to a harness 
shop. With this clew we sought the doctor, and asked about it. With 
face solemn and grave he told us it was all a mistake, and hinted that 
the rumor arose from the fact that "old Ben" had got scared at the cars 
and tried to run away with Dr. J. D. C. Hoit. Now we are noted for 
our open, frank and confiding nature. Our countenance is open too ; 
indeed it could not well be more so, unless our ears were set back, and 
that would be a large contrast. These things cause our verdancy to 
stick out like a sore thumb, and no doubt tempt people to put up jobs 
on us. Of course we took the doctor's story all in. It was hard to 
believe that a man with the experience of Dr. J. D. C. Hoit would let 
old Ben run away; it was still harder to conceive how old Ben could 
run with a man having so much of the alphabet fastened to him for 
life; the only other individual in the city with such a slice of the first 
lesson in the primer tacked to him is the imp in this office, and we keep 
two-thirds of his front name fastened under the corner of the imposing 
stone, as a security against its getting loose and making pi of the cases. 
It was a real down-right slander on old Ben. The fact is old Ben 
has not, with malice, intent and forethought, voluntarily struck a canter 
for the past twenty-nine years. If Ben had been a gray, instead of a 
sorrel, he could easily have established his claim to being the identical 
horse that King William rode at the battle of the Boyne. Judge, then, 
of our surprise when we heard, this week, that Dr. W. T. Royce has 
a new horse, that he hitched it up, and getting into the sleigh seized the 
ribbons with the air of a Robert Bonner, and set sail ; that he struck a 
reef, unshipped the rudder, lost his jib boom, spanker and mizzen top, 
was badly wrecked, and was cast ashore, his head in a snow drift, his 
hands set out for braces, the foot end of one leg pointing toward the 
north star ; that of the other inclining toward the orange groves of Flor- 
ida. We have no sympathy to waste on him ; any man who will delib- 
erately put up a job on an editor, palm off his own runaway on a fellow 
practitioner, and — above all — slander decrepit age in the body of old 
Ben, can neither buy, borrow nor beg sympathy from us. 



402 HUMOROUS 



Alas! Alas!! 

We believe it was Oscar Wren, or else Robert Burns, who said 
that, "one is never sure of anything except he gets a piece of meat 
fast in his neck. ' ' At any rate we are ready to solemnly affirm that it is 
true. Last Saturday the Yates City football team might have stood 
against the world; now none so poor to do them reverence. It is ail 
along of the fact that the Elmwood team came down like a wolf on a 
now born lamb, and left not a grease spot of them. When the news of 
this terrible defeat reached us we wilted and fell down all in a heap. 
We cannot account for this great National disaster, except 
on the theory that Elmwood had the best team. We are 
seated in a pile of cinders scraping ourself with a broken 
saucer, and weeping as we cry, our football team is done for, 'tis 
straightened for the grave; there'll be no resurrection, for nothing now 
can save. Alas! we are like a pelican in a wildhog's nest. Bring forth 
the Whangdoodle and place it on the hewgag! Let us gnaw a file, and 
flee into the wilderness of Swab Run ! Chillis is no longer as Goliah of 
Gath, and Tracy's nose is peeled. Alas! Alas!! 

Bucking the Tiger 

F. T. Corbin and the editor of this paper may not be any better 
looking than they were last week, but they know more. They thought 
they had business in Peoria on Tuesday, and they took a train fori 
that place. They soon found themselves in company with a sedate 
looking young man, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two years old, 
dressed in black, with immaculate shirt front, gold watch chain. Prince 
Albert coat, and well polished shoes ; he wore a decidedly ministerial 
look, and as he complimented Corbin on his good looks and the editor 
on his vast knowledge, he was soon on easy terms of familiarity. They 
do not seem to know just how it came about, but they became inter- 
ested in a little game, and Frank and the editor were soon minus the 
last red cent they had about them. Peoria was soon reached, and 
the trio walked up town together, and just as the Yates City part 
of the outfit were congratulating themselves that they would put the 
police "onto" him, they lost sight of him at a corner, and never 
got sight of him again until the time they had to leave town, though 
they spent the entire afternoon in a fruitless search. It is said that 
the ministerial looking youth took off his Prince Albert coat, removed 
his glossy cuffs, and stood in the door of a business house on Wash- 
ington street watching the plucked innocents as they munched a cold 
snack kindly furnished by a friend. Corbin estimates his loss at three 
cents, while the editor is not sure of his, not having counted the cash 
for several weeks, but he feels almost certain that he had nothing 



HUMOROUS 408 



smaller than a one-cent piece, and so must have been out that amount 
at least, and both of them assert that a good photograph of the slick 
individual would look wonderfully like Fred Soldwell. 

"Richard Is Himself Again" 

Ever since the death of "Cute" — the same being a doggie — there 
has been a goneness in the look of Uncle Dick Corbin. There was 
an aching void in his life — a longing after something that was gone 
never to return — a high old hankering like that of a high school girl 
for a beau. But Dick is all right now. Jim Golliday fell heir to a 
black cur dog, one of those apologetic dogs that draw their legs out 
of sight and grovel on their stomach, and fawn servilely, and wag 
their tail deprecatingly, and hug their nose close to the ground and 
roll up their eyes to your face so humbly, as if saying, "Please don't 
blame me, sir; I don't know why I was born, nor why I wasn't 
drowned, nor why I never could get enough to eat; I wasn't consulted; 
I don't know as I'm to blame; I'm only a sorry dog, and will you 
pardon me for living?" He was lean, lank and scraggy, and looks 
like he might have been trying to live on the fare of a country editor's 
family, and Jim presented the dog to Dick. He is not probably the 
equal of the lamented "Cute," for he was a dog of wonderful repute, 
but still the new cur seems to be a dog of good parts. We can testify 
that for the purpose of making tracks in newly made garden beds he 
stands at the head of the heap. He has a nose for stray bones, and 
an eye for a square meal, and if Dick Corbin can't discover something 
good about that dog, it will be the first dog — or man, for that matter — 
that he did not find some good in, or at least thought he did. Well, 
well ; after all, the ability to find something good in man or dog is not 
a bad failing. 

The Fall 

It is a generally received statement that the first man fell. And 
ever since that time his descendants have shown an aptitude for fall- 
ing. John Brimmer is a lineal descendant of Adam. We do not at 
present have the genealogical record that traces the Brimmer tree 
through all its multiform branches until it comes back to the original 
root, Adam, but we defy any one to successfully deny that John 
Brimmer is a bona fide Adamite. We are confirmed in this idea from 
the fact that both Adam and John Brimmer have fallen. We blame 
this entirely on Adam. It is like this: Adam fell. Brimmer de- 
scended from Adam by ordinary generation. Brimmer fell. Adam 
set the example, and is therefore not only responsible for his own fall, 
but for that of Brimmer. It is true that Adam fell but once, and 



404 HUMOROUS 



Brimmer several times. But we must remember that Adam stood at 
the opening era of history, while Brimmer has the records of almost 
1,900 years, and its experiences also. It is true that Adam fell from 
an estate, and that Brimmer has fallen from a hay shed, from the 
roof of a house, and a road cart. But let us not forget that when 
Adam fell there was not a hay shed, not a house, not a road cart, in 
all the world, not one. Besides, we take some pride in the fact that 
Brimmer has broken Adam's record in the matter of falling. We lay 
it all to the fact that Brimmer is a citizen of Yates City. Of course, 
we realize that it was more Adam's misfortune than his fault that he 
did not live in Yates City. Nor do we intimate that Adam preferred 
Eden to Yates City from choice. Far from it. From what we know 
of Adam, we are confident that if he had known of Yates City, he 
would have given up the gardening business, sold his hoe, and bought 
a membership in the Blue Goose. Brimmer's last fall was on Monday. 
He was seated gracefully in a road cart, and was riding down one 
of our main boulevards, in company with a friend, when some son-of-a- 
sea-eook rode up behind them and made their horse take a sudden 
lurch. Brimmer is opposed to letting any opportunity slip to get in 
a fall, and so he went over backwards. He made the start for a rapid 
fall, but his companion interfered by seizing him gently, but firmly, by 
the legs, and using them as a lever, with the seat of the cart as a ful- 
crum, he let John descend into the mud with all the grace and dignity 
of a Chesterfield. If there were no moral to this story, it never would 
have been told. But there is, and it is an important one. It is this: 
"Keep off of road carts." It will be remembered that when the 
down-easter was hauling wood, and the oxen upset the wagon on a 
bridge, breaking his leg, and when his wife was told of the accident, 
she said : "Well, maybe that'll learn Moses to keep off en bridges." 

Old Dan 

Old Dan has fallen from his high estate. John W. Bird has bought 
another yellow horse, and old Dan will no longer furnish motive power 
for the dray. Good, faithful, patient, trusty old Dan ! The pains and 
aches of old age have made him no longer able to toil as he once did. 
But he has earned the rest and repose that he will now get. It would 
be a grand good thing if all the men of Yates City would do their duty 
in their respective stations as well and faithfully as old Dan filled his 
station as a horse. It is not without a feeling of regret that we see 
old Dan give place to a younger and suppler animal. It is a sort of 
prophecy of what is coming on us all. May old Dan's rations be 
always ready, and may he find juicy grasses to nibble with his worn 
molars. 



HUMOROUS 406 



Wellington, Kansas 

Last week we received a copy of "The Republican," published at 
Wellington, Summer County, Kansas. From this paper — which, by 
the way, is a pictorial edition, containing "cuts" of all the principal 
buildings in that bailiwick — we learn that the place is on a boom. It 
seems that the place got quite a start all by itself, and was "increas- 
ing slowly" until about two years ago, when George Gooding went 
out there, and cast in his lot with the denizens of that favored spot. 
Now, George is a hustler. When George was first born, it is reported 
that a flock of wild ducks flew over in the night, and that the old 
boss drake squawked in a peculiar way, something like the noise of a 
new pair of brogans on a granger when he marches up the aisle of a 
country church on the first Sunday after the Fourth of July. This 
may only be a tradition; but if it is, it is certain that George grew 
up to be a man of broad gauge, easy grades, few curves, and innumer- 
able siding; and when he spits on his hands and leans up to the hand- 
spike of the capstan, the anchor heaves with alacrity, and the vessel 
is soon scudding away before a brisk breeze. When he pulls some- 
thing has got to crack; in fact, George is a man of function, of eclat, 
of aplomb, of imposing bearing, of lofty crest, of wide girth, a whale 
among toads if you give him a stick, and a whole team with a yaller 
dog trotting under the hind axle. As soon as George struck the town 
it went into travail, and was born to a new, a higher, a better era 
of prosperity. Supposing that George had sent us this paper in 
order that our 239,243 subscribers might learn exactly where the 
Garden of Eden was situated, and where the river Euphrates flowed, 
and where the tree of the knowledge of good and evil really grew. 
We took the paper and started out. The first man we met was C. L. 
Wing. He refused to believe that Wellington was such a great place 
as it was represented, and declared that he suspected there was about 
as much reliability about the paper as there is about the promises 
of Nick Worthington. F. T. Corbin said he could see that there were 
some nice buildings, but he could never believe that 25,000 people read 
the paper, as that was more than Post's majority at the last election. 
John Hunter said it might be a good enough place for business; he 
supposed it was; but he did not think it equaled Yates City or Ma- 
quon as a point to engage in ten-cent ante. J. A. Irving said he 
presumed that might all be true, but nevertheless he doubted if they 
had a remedy for gripes and colic that equaled the Oil of Gladness, 
made right here in Yates City. A. J. Knightlinger said he thought 
Kansas a great state, but he had heard that only one pint was being 
paid for votes by the Republicans out there, and here they gave him 
two five-dollar Williams and two pints. Alex Kerns said he expected 
a blacksmith might do well enough out there, but he was afeared that 



406 HUMOROUS 



he could not get a shop as handy to a drug store as his was here. Dick 
Corbin said it might be, but he had peddled all over Kansas, and 
he never had seen such a place as that. John Bird said he supposed 
a man might get rich out there, but he did not think the climate 
would agree with old Dan. Larry Burke said he would like to be 
out west, but it was just such a nice morning walk from his house 
up to Steve's that he hated to leave. Boaz Bevans said he was ready 
to go west, but he thought there were too many Republicans in Kansas. 
Bob Hobkirk said if Elmwood was only two miles from Wellington, 
he would go out there. John Brimmer said if they had not put in 
that picture of the court house, he would go out in order to bid on 
the contract for putting his 3x4 flue in operation. Andy Alpaugh 
wanted to know if the town council of Wellington permitted a slaugh- 
ter house in the center of town ; if they did, and the school directors 
would not make his children study a geography that taught the pre- 
posterous doctrine that the earth is round, he would go out there, 
ponies and all. Pet Thomson said he was satisfied it was a good 
place, but he understood that no one there could dispute with him 
more than three hours at one time, and he did not care to be there. 
Wils. Adams said he understood that Clark E. Carr was not a great 
man out there, and he would not go. William Philbee said he under- 
stood a horse doctor was not as much thought of out there as a regular 
physician, and he would stay here. John W. Wood said he understood 
that no man could sell hardware at cost in Wellington, and get rich 
and he did not care to go. Ed. Baxter said he had heard that no 
dramatic company would visit him in his sleeping room, and so he 
would stay right here. Elmer West said he understood that no man 
was allowed to win more than eight turkeys at a shooting match, and 
he would rather be in reach of John Williams' place. Fin. Westfall 
said he would never stop in Kansas, as he had heard that no man was 
allowed to lay claim to belonging to more than three political parties 
at once. Win Aley said he could not go there, as his best girl had just 
got married and gone out west. Sam. Conver said he would like to go, 
but he had got the people here reconciled to his razors, and he would 
stay. Mart Jordan said he did not believe that Wellington could be 
so large ; he had been through that country in 1530, and he felt sure 
that such a town could scarcely have grown up since. George Broad- 
field said he had been all over that country, and as he had seen no 
such beautiful girl as Bert Hunter, he would stay right here. George 
Slater said that he would go west, only he learned that the statutes 
of Kansas prohibited a restaurant keeper from breaking a peanut 
in two in order to make exact weight, and he would not live there. 
L. A. Lawrence said he would go there if he could get the contract to 
furnish the city with lumber, R. A. Pulton said that if the town of 



HUMOROUS 407 



Wellington had an ordinance prohibiting any one from keeping or giv- 
ing away a razor, he would not mind to change. J. A. Hensley said he 
had been told that the Presbyterian church would not permit its mem- 
bers to play seven up, flip coppers in the barber shop, or take more 
than a pint on a fishing expedition, and he did not think that was 
right. Dr. J. D. C. Hoit said it was strange to him that Atticas, nor 
any other of those old Greek cusses, ever mentioned Wellington. Dr. 
Royce said he would locate out there, but he expected they would 
want him to ride out in the country when he wished to rest at home. 
H. Soldwell looked at the paper, and asked us to wait a minute ; he 
went out and soon returned with 'Squire Roberts, and wanted him to 
play chess on the town plot in the corner of the paper, evidently having 
taken it for a new fangled chess board. Mort Thomson swore he 
would not live in a place where they fiddled on a key different from 
that he used. George Stone said he heard there were none but mongrel 
Irish out there, and he would just stay close to John Graves, who, he 
was sure, was the genuine article. Jaquith said he would go out if 
Dave Corbin, William Houser and E. Rogers would go, too, so he 
could play croquet all winter. Smith Rhea said he saw no such signs 
as those he has on the awning posts, and he could not go. Steve Bird 
thought the soil of Yates City better for turnips. John Dixon said he 
would rather hunt rabbits in Illinois. Sam Highlands was afraid he 
could not gather bones out there. A. J. Coykendall thought M. E. 
preachers were too plenty for a good chicken business. Romeo Bill 
said he feared he could not laugh loud enough to be heard all over 
Wellington. At last we called on Koos. He said, by George, he 
thought it was just the place, and if he could "sell his cow, he'd come 
to Kansas." 

"Korea and Alice" 

Last Monday morning at the Banner Hotel several gentlemen were 
discussing the Aurora Borealis at the breakfast table. One gentleman 
thought it might be reflection of arctic snow. Different opinions were 
given but no satisfactory explanation was heard until a clerical ca- 
daverous individual removed his eye glasses, took a swallow of coffee, 
and in a sepulchral voice said, ''Gentlemen, I am perfectly familiar 
with this wonderful phenomenon and will give you the scientific 
reason." 

Then the cross-eyed drummer looked at the sad eyed traveler and 
everybody stopped eating while the melancholy individual explained 
as follows: "The Aurora Borealis is caused by the illumination of the 
fundamental firmament as applied to the eccentric refrigeration in 
contamination with the unsubstantial atmosphere." 

Then a heavy gloom settled over the dining room until the sad eyed 
drummer remarked that he did not understand the explanation. Then 



408 HUMOROUS 



the professor turned to liim, and in scathing sarcasm replied. "Of 
course you do not understand." "Why?" "Because the explanation 
is too vast in its congestion and supplementary with the antimonial 
circumambrience of the disingenious insignificance as indemnified with 
the festivity of the pertinacity of the vascillating firmament. 

The professor then walked out of the dining room as straight as if 
an ironing board was resting against his spine. When he was gone 
the cross-eyed drummer said, "What sort of a racket was he givin' us?" 
The cross-eyed drummer exclaimed in a voice husky with bread crumbs 
and coffee, "Damifino." 

Veni Vidi 

Andrew Jackson Donaldson Coykendall, of Farmington, was in 
town Thursday forenoon. Uncle Jack has reefed his pant legs, took an 
extra hitch in his galluses, rolled up his sleeves, spit on his palms, and 
is lifting on the heavy end of the old settlers' picnic at Farmington, and 
swears by the whole calendar of saints that it will be the biggest thing 
on wheels, and he has started a boom here that has not been equaled 
since the day of the Big Harvest Home. If this boom does not subside 
before Wednesday, the 14th, Farmington will see the hordes of the 
north sweeping down on her, "terrible as an army with banners" and 
"irresistible as the avalanche as it rushes down the mountain side." 
In fact they "will come as the waves come, when navies are stranded; 
they will come as the leaves come when forests are rended." It is said 
that even J. D. Truitt is excited and has exclaimed, "La beaute sans 
vertu est une fleur sans perfum, " "Labor omni vincent, " "Le mot d' 
enigme, " "Lex loci," "Licentia vatem," "Lis sub judice, " and probably 
would have been going yet if it had not been that J. Knox caught him 
by the coat tail, yanked him off the dry goods box, and insisted that 
no man should be permitted to make a Spanish speech. To such degree 
did Uncle Jack stir our staid people up. We cannot more fittingly close 
this than by a quotation from our own wrapt poet of the parsnip patch, 
O. J. Wren: "All the high toned darkies will be in Farmington Sep- 
tember 14. Selah." 

Truitt Wins a Case 

J. L. Wells, of Maquon, and Attorney Hendricks, of Galesburg, 
came here on Saturday, and doubled teams on J. D. Truitt. Of course 
they did not apprise him that both would be here. But they did not 
make anything by this effort. J. D. just took a fresh hitch on a volume 
of Blackstone, laid hold of the Illinois Digest, got the 9th volume of the 
decisions of A. J. Coykendall, when he was police magistrate, and 
sailed in and smote these legal Golliahs until "they ran and roared as 
ever I heard a calf," or words to that purpose. The fact is when 
J. D. is " bearded in his den, ' ' he becomes desperate ; it is then he ' ' lets 



HUMOROUS 409 



slip the dogs of war," and in the beautiful, chaste language of the 
editor of the Galesburg Plaindealer, he cries: "Lay on McDuff, and 
damned be he who first cries 'hold, enough.' " When Jim got roused up, 
spread on his war paint, seized his tomahawk, and went for those two 
worthies, even the sedate and venerable C. L. Roberts became so excited 
that he started up, and addressing the erudite Soldwell, who was holding 
down the "Woolsack," said: "May it please the court; under the fervid 
and burning eloquence of my Colleague, Mr. Truitt, I can keep silence 
no longer but am led to exclaim, in the grand, terrific and sublime 
words of Paul the Apostle, in his celebrated epistle to the Aboriginese, 
'Root little pig or die.' " It was no wonder; if eloquence could rouse 
the stones of Rome to mutiny, how could this wild burst do otherwise 
than "stir the red tide in the veins of men," and make them feel that 
"it were worth ten years of peaceful life, one glance at Jim's array." 
Small wonder that the Maquonites and the Galesburgites were routed 
"horse, foot and dragoons," and the verdict of the public is that "They 
were not in it. ' ' 

He Declared War 

Last Monday night Romeo Bill held a cabinet meeting and declared 
war. Not a sort of make-believe war, but the genuine, double and 
twisted, sanguinary, gory, grim visaged war, warranted not to rip, cut 
in the eye, fade or wear out. He then marshaled his forces in front of 
Dewitt's restaurant, struck an attitude a la dime novel, set one foot 
down on about four square feet of walk, stretched out one arm in the 
form of a shinny club, curved the other gracefully till it resembled one 
of the original Burson binders, tossed his long hair back on his noble 
brow, set his starboard molars firmly together, bent his majestic form 
over till he resembled a boy who had eaten bogs of green apples, hatched 
a scowl upon his face dark as Erebus, rolled his tobacco quid on the 
port side, and thus spake: "He stole 65 cents out of my pocket; that's 
all right, but let him beware how he crosses my path, or he is a dead 
man." Not knowing exactly where Bill's path was located and fearing 
that we might step athwart it inadvertently, and perish, we hustled off 
to the office and went to slinging type, glad that we still lived. 

Our Advertising Columns 

See our Yates City ads — if you have to borrow a microscope. They 
show just the enterprise of the town, and we call attention to them with 
the same pride with which we would mention that we had a sore toe, or 
would admit that our brother was in the penitentiary for stealing a 
string-halted mule. Our pride in the enterprise of our live business men 
sticks out like a sore thumb, and looms up a la the big beet at a country 
fair. In most towns advertising slacks up after the Fourth, but it 
won't with us. 



Miscellaneous Writings 

"Cute" Corbin Is Defunct 

Cute was only a dog, but he was honorable, in fact much more 
honorable than some men we could mention — and would were it not 
that we are afraid that they would come in and lick us like thunder, 
Cute's friendship was sincere and disinterested, and that is more than 
we can say for many men of our acquaintance and retain any character 
for truthfulness. Cute never told a lie, and here he was entirely differ- 
ent from the editor of this paper, who has told many — and so have 
some of his readers, if they would only confess, as honestly as we do. 
Cute would deliver the mail and never read a postal card, a thing that 
cannot be said of any living man, or of any woman either living or 
dead. He never took money out of any letter entrusted to his care, 
and here he had the advantage of many mail clerks. He never danced, 
and here his conduct was more consistent than that of many church 
members. He never played cards, an example that we suspect his mas- 
ter did not always profit by. Cute had his faults, and we would not 
conceal them, nor attempt to condone them; in his younger days he 
almost broke up the Sunday schools of Yates City by enticing the kids 
away on Sundays to see with what dexterity he could kill rats, a 
pastime in which he apparently took almost as much delight and satis- 
faction as the people of the United States take in killing off the liberty 
loving inhabitants of the Philippine archipelago. Cute did not smoke 
cigars nor chew tobacco, an accomplishment in which no boy of half 
his age is deficient. Cute never went to the depot to flirt with the 
strangers at train time, wisely considering that there were enough 
young girls, together with a few married women, who were not so 
charry of their reputation as he was to attend to that. 

Cute was the property of R. B. Corbin, of dehorning pencil fame, 
and had attained the good old dog age of 19 years. He was well 
known to all the citizens of Yates City, many of whom have seen him 
trotting home with the paper or a letter in his mouth. 

Some years ago, when the Corbin family lived on South Burson 
Street, Cute was sent home with a letter; when he reached the Dr; 
Hoit place — now J. W. Dixon's — he spied a cat — there was perpetual 
enmity between the cat tribe and himself — and he laid down the letter, 
gave chase to the cat, which took refuge finally in one of the large 
pines in Dr. H^nsley's lot, when Cute went back, took up the letter 
and resumed his homeward trot with the air of one who had done his 
duty. 

411 



412 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

It was evident that Cute was disgusted with the late prolonged 
zero weather, and Saturday night, February 11, 1899, he made up his 
mind that if such weather was going to continue he would quit, and 
sometime during the night he died. 

This notice is not exactly in accord with the usual style, for it 
contains more of truth than we would dare to put in the ordinarj' 
notice — in fact, if we suspected that some one would tell as much truth 
in our obituary, we would be congratulating ourselves that we will 
not be here to read it. Cute was a tan colored rat terrier, but a little 
above the average size, and worthy of special mention. 

A Drive 

Albert A. and Mrs. McKeighan and A. H. and Mrs. McKeighan 
went out for a drive Monday afternoon and had a most delightful 
time. The day was one of those beautiful Indian Summer days that 
are no other place nearer perfection than they are in our own state of 
Illinois, and as the roads were in the best possible condition, and the 
route was through a part of the country with which we were familiar 
in boyhood days, it is small wonder that we enjoyed it. We made a 
few front gate calls in Farmington, and reached home at 5:30 p. m., 
just a trifle surprised that the world was going on as usual, and we 
absent from the Banner office for fully six hours. 

Extra Visit 

On Saturday last Mrs. Elizabeth McKeighan, mother of the editor 
of this paper, paid us a visit, remaining till Monday. She is an old 
lady, having been born on the 10th of March, 1810, and is consequently 
69 years old the 10th of last March. 

We call this an extra visit because we delight to honor the best 
and truest friend we ever have had, or we ever expect to have ; and 
wish to acknowledge that whatever we have of respect or esteem among 
our fellowmen, we are indebted for to her patient, earnest, faithful, 
prayerful efforts on our behalf in the years of our childhood and youth. 
It was she who bore with our childhood folly, restrained our youthful 
wanderings, and guided our unpracticed feet along the untried paths 
of life. 

No mother's love ever yet failed; it is as unbounded as the ocean 
and as lasting as eternity ; and hers has followed us all the days of our 
life. She taught us to honor ourselves, to respect our fellow men, and 
to reverence God. We are glad to be able to bear testimony to the 
great worth of a mother's disinterested love, and to the benefits of 
her pious teaching, and, may I not say, holy example. 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 413 

We would give but little for the friendship of that one whose 
respect for a good, kind, loving mother does not outlive every other 
earthly aspiration. 

Progress 

This is an age of unrest. It is an era of skepticism. The iconoclast 
is entering the most sacred temples, and pulling down the most cher- 
ished idols of the past. The divine right of kings is scouted. Tha 
priest no longer rules the conscience of the people. It is no longer a 
crime to think, nor a misdemeanor to express thought. The tendency 
is toward the emancipation of the bodies of men — and the souls as 
well. All the old forms of governments are losing sacredness in the 
eyes of the people. But while this is the case the tendency is toward 
better forms, and not away from all forms. That is, the tendency is to 
drop what has been found bad, and retain what is good and useful. 
It would be useless to assert — because it is not true — that governments 
are failures because they have not been, heretofore, perfect. The ten- 
dency is away from all that has been found useless in religion, but it 
would be useless — because it is not true — to assert that the tendency 
is away from all religion. Without organized governments anarchy 
would be supreme among all peoples. Without religion chaos would 
reign in the world. The instinct of humanity is toward the protec- 
tion of law. The innate desire of mankind is in the direction of a 
religion that develops the moral sensibilities. Governments have to 
do with man's civil rights. Religion has to do with his moral obliga- 
tions. The true theory of government was not less true at creation's 
dawn than it is now, though it was but imperfectly understood. True 
religion is not different now from what it was in the beginning, only 
that enlightened experience proves that many crimes have been done 
in the name of religion, for which it was not responsible. Governments 
will not perish, because man is government. Religion will not be 
destroyed, because man is a religious animal. 

William Simpson 

We were not much surprised, but very much grieved, when R. C. 
Mathews informed us that William Simpson had died at his home near 
Fort Scott, Kansas, July 29, 1910. He was among the first boys we 
knew intimately when we first came to Illinois, 63 years ago last April. 
His parents, John and Mrs. Simpson, were among the earlier settlers 
at Farmington, their old homestead being only a short distance south 
of that place, and where one of the sons, John F. Simpson, still resides. 
To this home of the Simpsons were made welcome many of those who 
came a few years later from Philadelphia and from New Jersey to 
take up the pioneer life in a strange, new, and not — at that date — an 



414 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

overly inviting country. The parents of William Simpson and our 
own revered father and mother — long since of sainted memory, were 
of the same nationality, being Scotch-Irish, were of the same pro- 
nounced religious faith, all being Presbyterians, and as William Simp- 
son was but 1 year, 3 months and 18 days our junior in age, we met in 
the old church at Farmington, where we swung our bare feet from 
the same tall benches — taller to our youthful fancies — than they prob- 
ably really were, and where, together a part of each week we both 
grew from childhood to youth, and from youth to early manhood, and 
where we both won noble girls for our wives, and went out to meet 
the labors, the duties, the responsibilities of maturer manhood. 

We seldom outlive the attachments of these earlier years, and 
memory, faithful to her sacred trust, brings back those earlier scenes 
and we forget the years that mark half a century lies between the 
then, and the now, a river flowing to the sea of eternity, so wide, so 
deep, that only memory bridges it with piers on either shore. 

In these earlier times we learned to know the promise of future 
usefulness in the boy, the laudable ambition of his youth, and in the 
after years we noted the noble work his manhood wrought. Can you 
blame us that we regret our inability to say what we feel of our dear 
friend, whose life has closed before our own, or that we sorrow most 
of all these sundered earthly ties, or that a tear should dim these aged 
eyes, when told that he has gone, even when we felt that in a wider 
field he rises to nobler deeds, attains to higher duties, and see the 
Master face to face. 

William Simpson was born at Farmington, Illinois, December 1, 
1837. His education was begun in the district school, and ended only 
when death touched him, for he was ever a student. He was married 
to Sarah A. Mathews, the daughter of John and Clara Mathews, of 
Salem Township, Knox County, Illinois, December 15, 1859. They 
moved to Fort Scott, Kansas, in the fall of 1860. He enlisted in the 
Federal Army in 1862, served faithfully during the war and was hon- 
orably discharged in 1865, 

Returning to his home he took up the duties of a peaceful life. He 
was twice elected to the state legislature of Kansas, and was a mem- 
ber of that body when a successor to United States Senator Pomeroy 
was elected, and was called to Washington as a witness in that cele- 
brated case. 

His family consisted of ten children, seven of whom are still liv- 
ing. His wife died some sixteen years ago. 

We met him last a few years ago, when he was here to attend 
the funeral of his daughter, Mrs. Fred Thurman, and in our own 
beautiful cemetery, where sleeps his dead and those of our own family 
we grapsed his hand and said farewell, realizing that death had 



MI S C ELL A N E US W RI TINGS 415 

even then cast its sombre shadow across the pathway of his life. He 
was a noble and useful man. He was an honest man the noblest work 
of God. 

Mother Love 

The Banner, does not know of anything else on earth so pure, 
so disinterested, so unselfish, so sacred and holy, — outside of re- 
ligion, — as a Mother's love. All other ties may be severed; all other 
affections may perish; all other hope die out; but a Mother's lov» 
that gushes free and warm, out to the tender bud of promise, as it 
nestles, for the first time in that bosom, can never be quenched, can 
never be put out, can never become a particle less ardent than when 
it first flows warm from her tender bosom. 

It may not be returned; the object of it may be totally unworthy; 
every other human being may learn to execrate the very memory of 
that child, but the Mother's love is the same sacred fire that never 
goes out ; the light that is never dimmed ; the lambent flame giving 
out the same steady glow of ardent devotion. 

No wonder the inspired penman, when he wished to express, in 
the highest degree, the love of God for fallen humanity, exclaimed: 
"When thy Father and thy Mother forsake thee, then the Lord thy 
God will take thee up." Nothing can go beyond this; it is the end 
of all earthly comparison. A Mother's love is surely akin to God's. 

Our Own Dear People 

It is known to all our readers that death has again entered our 
home, and taken from us a dearly loved daughter, the last girl of the 
five who came to claim our love and care for a longer or shorten 
time, and then went home to God. You have read her obituary; 
some of you knew her intimately. We think she had more near, dear, 
true, loving friends than come into the lives of most people. The 
efforts of these friends to do something to cheer her in the years of 
her weakness and pain has deeply stirred our hearts. The very large 
number of letters that have come to us — and are still coming — ex- 
pressing regret and sorrow for her death, and such kind sympathy 
for us in the hour of our deepest grief — letters coming from all over 
this country, from Philadelphia on the east, to San Francisco on the 
west — have been such a comfort to us, that they will be sacredly 
kept, and guarded as treasures that we prize. All these dear friends 
have helped us to bear a burden that seemed almost too heavy for 
us in our old age, and mere words can never express how grateful we 
are to all of them. 



416 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

But it is to the dear friends who live in Yates City and vicinity 
that we wish to say a few words — words that can but feebly express 
what our sad hearts feel — before we turn again to the duties that fall to 
our lot. We had before tested the worth of these friends in times of 
trial, and we have the sweet incense of their kindness to us locked in 
the casket that is shrined in our hearts. But on this occasion their 
love for, and devotion to the dear dead girl — while not undeserved by 
her — was certainly far beyond what we had expected even from a 
people whom we have always regarded as the kindest and best on 
earth. 

There have been but a few funerals at which all who had part 
in the services were such sincere mourners. The ministers who spoke 
to the living were speaking of a departed friend; the choir sang the 
grand and comforting selections, how difficult a position they were 
placed in, for they sang with aching hearts and tear dimmed eyes 
the last songs over her who was dear to them ; the six ladies who were 
her pall bearers were carrying to its resting place the form of her 
whom they all loved; the undertakers were those who knew her and 
were her true friends, and as they were performing the last duties 
for her tears of sorrow made dim their vision ; the large congregation 
were those who came to show their love and respect for one whose life 
they admired, and to express their kindliest sympathy for her sorrow- 
ing relatives. The closing of the public schools and all the places of 
business during the time of her funeral was a mark of respect for her 
that touched the tenderest chord in our hearts, and while unexpected, 
was all the more appreciated. The picture of the funeral of our dear 
girl is hung on memory's wall, and it will only become faded and dim 
when the things of time become merged in the bright effulgence of the 
eternal morning. 

Dear friends, we have lived among you for more than a quarter 
of a century in a position that is as open to criticism as any calling 
can be; we have made mistakes that we deeply regret, but we have 
ever had the interests of Yates City and the welfare of her people 
close to our heart. If we believed that a better, a truer, a kinder 
people, or a people more ready to overlook our defects and sift from 
the chaff of these defects the few golden grains that we hope lie cov- 
ered there, we would not be here. 

We have buried our dead girl in your beautiful cemetery that she 
may rest in death, as she lived in life, among her friends. We intend 
to place her brothers and sisters beside her. We expect to spend the 
few years that God may give us among you. Our wish is "to lay our 
weary bones among you." We know that you will gather about our 
casket and say kinder things in regard to us than would any other 
people on earth. 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 417 

We deem this statement due to the people among whom we dwell 
from choice. We love our home people, we have faith in Yates City, 
and we hope to be always ready to do all we can for the town, and 
that we may, in some measure, merit the approval of a people whom 
we have learned to love and whom we respect more as the years go by. 

A Thought for the Dead 

It is well sometimes to call back our thoughts from the busy 
scenes of life, that all too much engage our every moment, to let our 
memory wander from the pleasant forms of the living to the less agree- 
able but not less loved forms who have, for longer or shorter periods, 
been sleeping the last long sleep. On the sunny slope of the winding 
hill are tiny graves, where loving hands and bursting hearts have 
labored, oh so faithfully, and so diligently to keep in order the mound 
that covers from sight forever the idolized child. 

On the brow of that hill rises a marble slab sacred to the memory 
of the loving wife, and tender mother. A little further on lies the 
once proud form that cherished wife and children, while all around 
lie scattered, not only the young and beautiful, the noble and good, 
but all classes and all conditions, for death comes alike to all. But 
is it not well sometimes to turn from the charms of the living to revel 
for a time in the chaster charms of the dead? 

It may be that time has not yet softened our sorrow into that 
calmness that can make us take pleasure in these thoughts, but none 
the less do we feel relief in them. 

Tears may dim our vision as we call up the helpless wail of the 
infant, the gentle prattle of the child, the devotion of a brother, the 
chaste love of a sister, the brave struggle of a father, the more than 
earthly love of a mother, the loving kindness of a husband, or the 
tender devotion of a wife. Awhile they cheered us here below, but 
they are resting, while we yet toil, and toil not less cheerfully that 
we know that over on the other shore they are waiting and watching, 
not in toil and sadness, but in joy that is eternal, to welcome us home. 

Who does not feel better and braver for the battle of life after 
having held an hour of sacred intercourse with the dear departed 
ones? 

Across the Great Divide 

James Henry Hunter died at his home in Farmington, Saturday 
morning, February 17, 1894, aged 54 years. 

This is not intended for an obituary notice, but is written to 
express the sense of loss on the part of the writer, in the removal of a 
true and valued friend. We have known him from boyhood, and we 



I 



418 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

learned to respect the manliness of his character, and the purity of 
his life. 

Monday we sat among the great throng of people who crowded 
the church where his funeral was conducted, and realized that we 
were but one of a vast company of mourners who had come to pay 
the last solemn duty to the loved and lost. 

We passed by the casket where lay our friend with pulseless 
hands folded, with stilled heart, and cold white face turned toward the 
blue of heaven, and we knew that he had awakened to a fuller knowl- 
edge, and that the mystery of birth, of life, of death, were all familiar 
to him, while we are not yet able to fathom them, nor will we be until 
we too shall cross the range that separates the little vale of time from 
the more extended valley of eternity. 

But what was it that bound so many hearts in friendship to his 
own? It was not his human frailties, of which, with all of us in 
common, he had a share ; it was not because he was an honest man, 
though that was a conspicuous fact; it was not because he was a 
moral man, for moral men were thick about him ; but it was because 
he had a large, generous, impulsive, warm and loving heart, in which 
he carried all his friends, and caused him never to forget a benefit. 

We knew the dead man well, and all his father's family, and we 
respected all, for all were worthy of esteem. A little more than a 
year ago, the morning we departed for a new and distant home, he 
came to us and gave a parting gift — a pair of gold rimmed spectacles — 
their value matters not — but if you ask of that, our answer is, beyond 
compute. Amid distant scenes they brought his genial, kindly face 
before us, and must do so as long as life shall last. Among the little 
hoard of treasures we possess are some made dear because hearts long 
still prompted the gift, and hands that we shall clasp no more on 
earth placed them in our possession; but among them all is none that 
we more highly prize. That fair October morning, as we parted from 
our friend, the tears welled up and dimmed our vision so that not a 
glass in all the universe might make it clear, and then we said: "How 
can it be that we have known him for so many years, and yet we but 
begin to know him as he is?" We loved him for the good he did, the 
light he put into our life. No doubt there are many who can share our 
feelings for the one we now have lost. 

Could we do less than sorrow when we learned that he was dead? 
We went and looked into his face serene and calm in an eternal repose, 
and then in our own heart we said, "Farewell, dear friend, farewell!" 

The wife mourns for a husband gone, the children lament a father 
lost, the brothers and the sisters sorrow over a dear one hidden now 
from sight, but all of us who knew him may share in all their griefs, 
for we have lost a friend. 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 419 



If We Were a Preacher 

If we were a preacher, we would chose those texts that contain 
the precious promises of God; those that have such blessed invitation 
in them; those that are so full of earnest entreaties; those that are 
pregnant with hope; those that are so full of balm for the wounded 
heart of man, woman and child, and preach to the congregation in 
sermons as simple in language, as full of the spirit, as tender in invi- 
tation as the matchless sermon on the mount. 

If we were a preacher, the morning prayer would never, no never 
be more than sixteen times as long as that inimitable prayer that 
Christ gave to his disciples. 

If we were a preacher we would in the politest manner possible, 
ask as a favor that the Sunday School should be closed promptly at 
the time allotted to it. 

If we were a preacher we would try to begin service on time, and 
close in one hour if possible, and if that were not possible — then we 
would cut a small fraction from the hour, and quit anyway. 

If we were a preacher, and something else encroached on our 
hour, we would look at the clock and say, "my beloved hearers, some 
of my time has been used by another, and so we can't elaborate as we 
had intended" — and then we would stick to our declaration. 

But we are not a preacher, and possibly we might not be able to 
accomplish all these reforms, but just as sure as a fact, we would 
make a valiant attempt to do so. 

A Failure 

Any government that takes opportunity away from the worthy 
poor man is a failure, and sooner or later it will be placed on the 
rubbish pile of the past, and a better will be adopted in its place. 

Good Resolutions 

The time for good resolutions is with us once again. There is 
nothing wrong about good resolutions, even if they are not kept. 
But the best thing about a good resolution is the keeping of it, both 
in the letter and the spirit. 

If a young man has no bad habits, he should resolve to keep him- 
self clear of them for all time to come. If he is already in the grasp 
of any bad habit now is the best time to resolve to give it up, and then 
stick to it. 

Using intoxicants is a bad habit, and it makes a fool of any 
one who indulges it. Cut it out at once and forever. 



420 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

The use of tobacco is a bad habit, is useless, disgusting, arid makes 
a hog of those who become slaves to it, and no person will ever regret 
making a resolution to quit it, that is if the resolution is strictly kept. 

The habit many young men form of spending much of their time 
and far too great a part of their money in billiard halls and pool 
rooms, is a bad habit, especially for those young men who have to 
work hard for their money, and do not have more clothing than the 
law allows, or the usages of polite society require, or that class of 
young men, who spend in these places money that toiling, but over 
indulgent parents have slaved to earn, is a bad habit, and a resolution 
to forego it for all time, and see that it is kept for all future time, 
would honor any young man making it and keeping it. 

There may be those who do not agree with the above statements, 
nor approve of our way of making them, or may conclude that it is 
none of our business, but permit us to say, in all kindness, that in these 
remarks are some thought, horse sense and observation and the ex- 
perience of over seventy-five years of life. 

A Mistake 

The youth who fails to make some preparation for the struggle of 
maturer years, and the demands of decrepit old age, is making a very 
serious mistake, and one that he will — in after years — vainly regret. 

Visionaries 

In our experience we have known women who become so absorbed 
in the study of religious fads as to neglect the duties they owe to home, 
to husband, to children. They are but visionaries, who have mistaken 
the path that leads upward to higher and better knowledge. 

We are Riding Backward? 

Some people ride, in the journey of life, with their faces toward 
the rear, and they never see anything until they have passed by it. 
Such passengers can do very little that is of real value, for the reason 
that they see opportunity as a receding something, and as the rig 
moves always forward, the chance to take advantage of these things 
becomes less and less as the moments pass. 

Some people ride with their faces to the front, and they see oppor- 
tunities before they come to them, and can make their calculations so 
as to be benefited as the chance comes opposite to them. 

It is our thought that those who are riding facing the front should 
continue to ride that way, and that all who are riding backward should 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 421 

turn about and ride facing to the front, so they may see the things 
they are passing before they are things of the past. 

Has Failed 

He who studies the wonderful evidences of wisdom and design; 
to be seen everywhere in the material world, and fails to see the hand, 
the brain, the intelligence of a power above that of the mere man, 
has failed to weigh these evidences aright. 

Man's Cruelty 

There is scarcely a great monument to man's mighty energy 
that is not also a monument to his cruelty. The pyramids cost the 
lives of millions of slaves, whose lives were dark as stygian gloom, and 
to whom death was a relief. It is so with every great work that man 
has accomplished. The tears, the groans, the blood of unrequited 
labor cries out from every nook and corner of their ruins. Man has 
climbed the steps toward civilization by intense suffering. Wealth, 
power and arrogance have forced unwilling slaves to build these last- 
ing witnesses to their helpless and suffering condition in life. The 
whole history of labor is the relation of deeds of wrong and acts of 
suffering. Where death has snatched one from happiness, he has 
closed a career of misery for thousands. We state these facts without 
argument. 

A Surprise 

Last Friday evening there was a surprise party for Miss Emma 
Dowdigan, gotten up by Mrs. Helen Smith and Miss Lida Rogers. It 
was largely attended, and was one of the most pleasant social events 
of the season. The ladies came with ample preparations for a tooth- 
some lunch, and games, music, etc., etc., passed the merry hours. 
Below we give a list of names of those present : 

Carrie Soldwell, Adie Rogers, Lida Rogers, Theresa Corbin, Lydia 
Corbin, Inez Long, Mrs. Lettie Parker, Belle Hoit, Ella Hoit, Ida 
Bevans, Mettie McKeighan, Georgia Roberts, Ellen Roberts, Jennie Bird, 
Etha Carter, Lillie Bliss, Olive Bliss, Fannie Enable, Gertie Kightlinger, 
Mrs. Frank Adams, Mrs. Hattie Coykendall, Mrs. Wm. Aley, Fay Aley, 
Mrs. F. E. Smith, Frank Thomson, Lincoln Smith, Al. Aley, Claude 
Anderson, Robert Anderson, Robert Bird, John Bird, Owen West, 
Albert McKeighan, Frank Adams, Simon Hasselbacher, Johnny Mc- 
Intyre, Wm. Bliss, H. J. Hensley, Wm. Boyer, Charles Corbin, Ed. 
Cunningham, Earl Benson and Curtie Smith. 



422 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Evelyn's Birthday Party 

Evelyn Cunningham, the five-year-old daughter of J. M. and Mrs. 
Cunningham, is one of the sweetest little girls in the city. She has 
been very seriously sick for a long time, but she is now getting better, 
and everybody is so glad that she will soon be well. Last Monday, 
June 5, 1911, was her birthday. She planned for a party, and selected 
her guests, all of whom were married people except two — the little 
daughter of George and Mrs. Davy, and that of S. W. and Mrs. Kogers, 
Her other guests were Wilson and Mrs. Adams, Geo. and Mrs. Davy, 
Dr. and Mrs. H. J. Hensley, S. W. and Mrs. Rogers, and Grandpa and 
Grandma Cunningham, and the families of her uncles and aunts. It 
certainly was an enjoyable time for her guests, as well as for Evelyn, 
and all wish for her many, many more such happy birthdays, 

A Pleasant Surprise 

Last Friday evening was the fortieth birthday of Mrs. A. J. Jacobs. 
It was made the occasion of a very pleasant surprise. The prepara- 
tions had been made at the house of her sister, Mrs. Melchor Knable, 
and Mrs. Jacobs was in entire ignorance of the event, until her friends 
began to arrive in a blinding snow storm. A pleasant social evening 
was spent, and a most excellent supper served, Mrs. Knable, Mrs. 
Jacobs, of Elmwood, and Miss Fannie Knable and Miss Maggie Kernes 
preparing and serving the tables. Oysters, chicken, excellent bread, 
and eight or ten different kinds of delicious cake are a part of the 
repast. 

Married 

Miss Belle Steck, the daughter of Robert R. and Mrs. Steck of this 
township, and Mr. Woolsey, whose home is north of Maquon, were 
married at the home of the parents of the bride, Thursday, Feb. 25, 
1909, at 8 p. m. We are not acquainted with Mr. Woolsey, but he 
has certainly shown wisdom in choosing a life partner, as the bride is 
as fine a girl as we have ever met, and we wish her a long and happy 
married life, and offer them our heartiest congratulations. 

The Grand in Nature 

There may be those who are not impressed by what is lofty and 
grand in nature, but they are certainly not an object of envy. And 
are not those to be pitied who see nothing to admire in those scenes 
of nature that are familiar to them because of every day intercourse 
with same? Nature must have done violence to man, or man to his 
better nature, if he fails to see majesty in a tree, or beauty in a flower; 
if he can hear no music in the rustle of growing corn, or perceive noth- 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 423 



ing of the poetry of motion in the undulations of the bearded wheat 
as it bends in the breeze ; if he detects no music in the bubble of the 
brook, and no melody in the hum of insect wings. Yes, there is some- 
thing not right in him who has no admiration for growing grass, and 
budding leaf, and opening flower; he who sees no worship in the 
bended forest, no devotion in growing vegetation, and no praise in the 
melody of the song bird. It is true that every object in nature speaks 
to that man whose better nature has not — in some way — had violence 
done to it. 

Poverty and Wealth 

Extreme poverty is not much less a menace to man's liberty than 
is extreme wealth. When both become prevalent in a republic, it 
bodes no good to that other class that is supposed to occupy a position 
between them. 

Golden Wedding 

Wednesday, March 18, 1908, was the 50th anniversary of the 
marriage of Erick and Mrs. Erickson, two of the old and respected 
citizens of Yates City, and the event was duly celebrated by their 
children, relatives, friends and neighbors. Owing to the lack of room 
in the house to accommodate all whom they wished to have present, 
the golden wedding was held in the M. E. Church, and a general invi- 
tation extended to all who wished to come, and a number availed 
themselves of the opportunity of showing the esteem and respect that 
is felt for the aged and worthy couple. The dinner was in the spacious 
dining room of the church, and was under the management of Mrs. 
Anderson — a daughter of the honored couple — and Mrs. C. M. Corbin, 
and it was just as fine as a dinner could be made, being par excellence 
in every particular, the viands being varied, plentiful and fine, and 
the service being faultless, while the tables were as beautiful as the 
deft fingers of skilled artists in that line could make them. A number 
of valuable presents were given Mr. and Mrs. Erickson, and at the 
conclusion of the dinner. Rev. C. D. Cady, their pastor, presented 
them, in a very fitting and touching speech. 

After this the company spent some time in informal sociability, 
and in congratulation and well wishes for the welfare and happiness 
of those in whose honor the event was planned, and successfully 
carried out. 

Mr. and Mrs. Erickson were married in Sweden, March 18, 1858, 
and came to America in the year of 1880, residing in this city ever 
since. 

They were the parents of fourteen children, of which seven sur- 
vive. They are: Mrs. Carrie Anderson of Gilson, 111., Mr. Charles 



424 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Erickson, Yates City, 111. ; Mrs. Wm. Hunter, Saybrook, 111. ; Mrs. Gus 
Larson, Yates City, 111. ; Mr. Fred Erickson, Banning, California ; Mr. 
Jake Erickson, Davenport, Iowa; Mr. August Erickson, Brock, Neb., 
and ten grandchildren. 

The children were all here, except Fred, who is in California, and 
August, who is in Nebraska. 

Mr. and Mrs. Erickson are natives of Sweden and have long re- 
sided here and are loved and honored for the many noble qualities of 
industry, frugality, honesty, good citizenship, and Christian character 
for which they are noted. 

Married 

KENNEDY— McKEIGHAN. On Wednesday, March 10th, 1880, 
at the residence of the officiating clergyman. Rev. Elliott of Farmingt- 
ton, Mr. Joseph Kennedy of Salem, Knox County, to Miss Mary J. 
McKeighan of Middle Grove, Fulton County. 

The bride is a sister to the editor of the "Banner." Hence Mr. 
Kennedy is a brother-in-law to this office, and a brevet uncle to the 
little Banners. That the choicest blessings of kind Heaven may ever 
attend them and that a long life of happy prosperity may be theirs, 
is our sincere wish. 

Silver Wedding 

Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Sloan entertained their immediate relatives 
on Sunday, March 22, 1908, in honor of their 25th wedding anniversary. 
An excellent two-course dinner was served. Those present were Mrs. 
Ware and daughters, Misses Jessie and Prissilla, of Douglas, Mrs. 
Hugo Delmar and baby, Jeanette, of Chicago, Mrs. Sarah Sloan, Mr. 
and Mrs. L. A. Lawrence, Mrs. Mary Hensley, Mr. James Sloan, Mr. 
and Mrs. A. J. Lawrence and three children. 

Mr. and Mrs. Sloan received several beautiful gifts of silverware. 

Her 91st Birthday 

Saturday, Oct. 10th, 1908, Mrs. Sarah Enochs, who lives on West 
Main street, Yates City, 111., reached the great age of 91 years. She 
has not been able to walk for almost six years, owing to a fall which 
left her in such a condition that she is unable to walk. She has not 
been able to read any since she received this injury, but she enjoys 
having any one read to her. She retains her remarkable memory to a 
wonderful degree. 

She enjoys good health, and bids fair to live to see several other 
birthdays. 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 425 

On account of some of her children not being able to be present 
on Saturday, the aniversary dinner was given on Sunday following. 

The children present at the dinner were John Enoch, his wife, 
Jeannette, from Farmington; her daughter, Mrs. S. A. Hensley of 
Yates City, and her husband; David Enochs and daughter Maud of 
Creston, Iowa; S. D. Enochs and his wife Angie of Mattoon; Edith 
EDoward, her oldest grandchild, and her husband, Charles Howard, of 
Farmington, and her infant son Clarence, who is her youngest great- 
grandchild ; Harry Enochs, son of T. B. Enochs, and his wife, of Kansas 
City, Mo. ; D. M. Enochs, her grandson, and his wife, Ida M. Enochs, 
who are living with their grandmother at the old home; Mr, and Mrs. 
Wm. Carroll, the parents of Mrs. Ida M. Enochs; Mrs. Elizabeth 
Riner, mother of Mrs. Angie Enochs ; Rev. C. T. Cady, the M. E, minis- 
ter at this place, whose home is at Brimfield; Mrs. Jessie Wheeler of 
Yates City ; Mrs. Long of Yates City. 

A two-course dinner was served, which was good enough for a 
king — or any one else. Mrs. Enochs received many useful presents 
from relatives and friends, also letters from I. C. Enochs of Rockford, 
and T. B. Enochs of Kansas City, Mo., regretting their inability to 
be here at the reunion. 

A pleasant day was spent with Mrs. Enochs, all wishing her many 
more birthdays, after which they bade her good-bye and departed to 
their several homes. 

Birthday Anniversary- 
Tuesday, Nov. 8, 1899, was the 72d birthday celebration for Mrs. 
Mary J. Mathews, and it was made the occasion for a family celebra- 
tion at the old homestead. 

Those present were her brothers, A. K. Montgomery, of Farming- 
ton ; J. C. Montgomery, of Oneida, and A. E. Montgomery and wife, of 
Yates City. These three brothers and herself are the sole living mem- 
bers of her family. In addition there was Uncle Robert Mathews, 
Mary E. Mathews, George W. Hattan and family— Mrs. Hattan being 
the daughter of the late W. "W. Montgomery, who was a brother of 
Mrs. Mathews. Besides these all her children and their families were 
present, except Clara B. Nixon, of Creston, Iowa. Uncle Thomas 
Mathews was unable to be present. 

The average ages of these five — the brothers, self and brother-in- 
law — was 77 years, A. K. Montgomery, the oldest present, being 82. 

The reunion was very much enjoyed, and after a day long to be 
remembered, the company dispersed, wishing for many such anni- 
versaries. 



426 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Birthday Surprise 

Wednesday, July 18, 1894, was the 61st birthday of Mrs. Cyrus 
Bliss, and her sons and daughters made it the occasion for a delightful 
and most complete surprise for her. To her astonishment they all came 
with well filled baskets, out of which materialized one of the most 
elegant dinners that ever tempted the appetite of mortal, and the day 
was devoted to pleasure and enjoyment. There were present Mr. and 
Mrs. W. B. Bird and their three children, Mr, and Mrs. Clarence Bliss 
and three children, Mr. and Mrs. W. S. Bliss and two children, Mr. and 
Mrs. R. C. Mathews and one child, and Mr. and Mrs. Luther Bliss and 
one child. Thus there were present the six children and ten grand- 
children. After dinner had been served Mr. Bliss went to Elmwood 
and brought out the St. Louis photographer, who took a picture of 
the entire group. It was one of the most successful and enjoyable 
family gatherings that has ever been held in the city, and while it was 
a great surprise to the old people, they made it a grand good time for 
the children and the grandchildren. The photograph will be prized by 
those present, for it may be that never again will the entire family 
thus meet at the old home. Mr. and Mrs. Cyrus Bliss are numbered 
among our most valued citizens, and all will join in wishing Mrs. Bliss 
many happy returns of her natal day. 

Highway Robbery 

Thursday of last week, just after dark, while W, D, Ware was 
walking on the Q. track just south of the city, going home, he met 
three tramps. One of them seized his arm, one got on the other side, 
and the third one lined up in front and demanded his money. He 
promptly handed them the contents of his pocket, which fortunately 
was but 35 cents and a knife. They went through his pockets, gave 
him back his knife, and let him go. Of course Mr. Ware was in a 
close place, and does not care to repeat the thrilling experience. 

Surprised at 84 

Last Tuesday, May 11, 1909, Newel Livermore reached the 84th 
milestone on the journey of his life. His sister, Mrs. Lucy Livermore, 
planned a little surprise for him by inviting a few of his older neigh- 
bors in to take dinner with him and have a good old social time. 

Those who were present were : Ross and Mrs, Taylor, Rev, S. A. 
and Mrs. Teague and their little son. Homer, Rev. and Mrs. W. H, 
Clatworthy, W, H', and Mrs, Vance, and A, H, and Mrs. McKeighan, 

The dinner was just elegant, and it is not amiss to state that it 
was prepared by Mrs, Lucy Livermore, who has an enviable reputation 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 427 

as a cook. This dinner was certainly a credit, even to one whose past 
achievements in that line had made her famous. 

When the company was called into the dining room, all present 
stood behind their chairs, while Rev. W. H. Clatworthy returned 
thanks for the bounties given, and thanked God for his favors. The 
meal was without formality, and relished by those who were present, 
and was thoroughly enjoyed. Two fine bouquets were on the table, 
and in the center was a large plate filled with wild flowers, presented 
to Mr. Livermore by the pupils of Miss Edna Mason, teacher of the 
primary department of the public school. In addition was a shower of 
postal cards that came from states separated as widely as Florida and 
Washington. 

These gifts were appreciated by Mr. Livermore, as typical of the 
love, the respect, the esteem that everybody who really knows him 
feels for him. 

We have had the occasion before to speak of the regard we have 
for our excellent old friend. Newel Livermore. We regret that for 
the past year the labor of climbing the stairs to our office has become 
too great a task for him, and we miss the helpful visits we were wont 
to enjoy with him, for he generally always added to our stock of 
knowledge, or said something that set us to thinking after he had 
departed. 

A man of his age, his education, his extensive travel, his tenacious 
memory, his close observation, his keen insight into the character and 
motives of those with whom he came in contact, has a rich fund of 
information from which he draws at will. Another trait that we have 
admired in our dear old friend is that while he has opinions of his 
own, clear and well defined on almost every question, he is tolerant of 
the opinions of those who differed with him. 

It is no small praise when old and young respect and revere a 
man of his age, and we know whereof we speak when we say that 
Newel Livermore is loved and respected by the old, the middle aged 
and the young of this town. 

The congratulations that he received were earnest and sincere, and 
at the close of a day fully enjoyed by all present, the departing guests 
wished for him many returns of his birthday, and all hoped that God 
had further use on earth for Newel Livermore. 

That his health may improve, and that his honest, upright life 
may still longer be an incentive to duty and right living is the sincere 
wish of the writer. 

Yates City History 

We are indebted to an old settler for much of the information th&t 
is given in this article, but believe these statements to be facts. The 



428 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Jacksonville & Savannah Railroad was located in the spring of 1857, 
and a large part of the grading was done the same year. In 1858 a 
little more grading was done, and then it was left until the fall and 
winter of 1861, when the grading was finished and the rails laid, reach- 
ing a point two and a half miles south of the present town in February 
of 1862. 

The city was laid out in 1857, and houses were built by Burson, 
West, Kerns, Sonemaker, Isinbrand, and Lungate. These were all the 
houses built here in 1857. 

Of all the men who were here at that time, Alexander Kerns is 
the only one left, so he is the oldest — in point of residence — of all the 
citizens of Yates City. 

No depot was on the Peoria & Oquawka railroad at this place until 
1858. Buffum & Kanable had the first warehouse, and Kent the 
second. There are yet several citizens here who were here in 1858. 

In February, 1859, J. M. Corey put up the first mail that went 
out of Yates City. D. B. Coykendall, who still resides here, came in 
1858, and Buffum, Kanable and in fact all the rest thought he would 
have to be buried soon, but he has outlived a large number of his 
neighbors of that time, who have long since ceased from their labors. 

The first school was kept in a small frame house that still stands 
on West Main street, and is owned by S. Boyer. The teacher was Miss 
Biggs. 

In those days the only preaching was done in the old school house 
by Elder Newton, a Baptist minister, then located at Farmington, while 
the Sunday School was in the same place, and was kept up by Kanable 
and others. Kanable was fond of a glass, and it is said the he always 
took a dring before going to take charge of his Sunday School class, in 
order that he might explain the scripture in a spiritual manner. A 
man by the name of Marrow was the superintendent. 

There was a place called the hole-in-the-ground, kept by different 
ones, where cards, whisky and groceries were staple articles ; if a man, 
in playing, won, he could take whisky, beer or groceries, just as it 
suited his taste. In order to satisfy different people, they could listen 
to preaching overhead, in the warehouse, or play seven up for the 
drinks in the cellar. 

The first hotel was built where the Universalist church now stands, 
but owing to a dispute in regard to the title of lot the house was moved 
to the other side of the street where it was burned. The next hotel 
was built by Jesse Calkins, on the corner of Main and Burson streets ; 
it was later moved to West Market street, where it also met the fate of 
its predecessor, being burned down. The next was built inside of the 
C. B. & Q. "Y," close to the old depot. When the depot was moved, 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 429 

it was set a little south of it, where after a few years it was destroyed 
by fire. It was the last building put up for hotel purposes, the present 
Hunter House springing from a small shoemaker's shop that was 
started by J. P. Buckman. 

The building now known as the "Old Regulator" was torn down 
in Farmington, in 1854, and rebuilt at what was supposed at that time 
would be a station on the Peoria & Oquawka R. R., and which was 
then called Glenwood ; but the road failing to make Glenwood a point, 
the building, after being occupied by S. Reed as a store room for a year 
or two, was abandoned by him, and was then moved to Yates City. 
The lower story is now occupied by Soldwell & Son as a boot and shoe 
store. While Reed was at Glenwood he sold a great many goods, and 
it would have made quite a place if the railroad had went on that line. 
Glenwood was located where Hugh Sloan's house now stands. 

The S. S. S. Bud's Show 

Last Friday night the S. S. S. Buds gave their minstrel show to a 
densely packed house, every chair in the hall being sold long before 
the hour for opening. The program was intended to be one of fun, 
and it certainly filled the bill. There were fifteen of the lady minstrels, 
and the acting and singing were of the best. Just after the perform- 
ance began eleven big negroes came in and took seats on the front 
row, every nigger of them a dude with an immaculate style. Their 
attention centered on the stage, and opera glasses were freely used. 
As the ladies came on the stage bouquets were showered upon them, 
and the applause of the sable visitors was earnest, enthusiastic and 
prolonged. When the flowers gave out they got a basket of onions, 
and after throwing them on the stage they threw the baskets after 
them. It was a wild, "auspaucious" and hilarious time, and really we 
believe it would have embarrassed the performers had they been white 
folks. There be those who kick because they mistook onions for 
flowers, but there are people who would kick if they were being hung. 
The Buds netted a large sum for the reading room, and the audience 
had "a heap big fun" for a little money. 

Pluck 

There is nothing like pluck, perseverance and energy to bring 
success. There is an instance of this right here in the case of Gilbert 
Lehman, who operates the milk route in this city. He has been at the 
business for almost two years, perhaps longer, and he is always on 
hand, always prompt, always cheerful, always ready to accommodate. 
In rain and shine, heat and cold, mud or snow, he is always at the gate 
on time, with sweet, pure milk. We are glad to speak a good word for 



430 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Gilbert, for he merits it; and we do so willingly — not for pay, for we 
have paid him the cash for every pint of milk that we have used, but 
because we like his push, his vim, his hang on. It is these qualities, 
coupled with honesty and sobriety that bring success in any line. 

Sober Looking — But! 

That staid, sober looking, mouse colored mare that Gilbert Lehman 
drives to the milk wagon took a notion that it would be proper to run 
away. So she watched her chance, and when Gilbert was in the post- 
office, no doubt looking for a letter from his best girl, the mare started 
across the street to Mrs. Duth's millinery shop. The wagon came in 
contact with the walk, and she made this the pretext for a first class 
runaway. She threw out the milk can, broke the fills, left the wagon 
on the road, and capered out home to her feeding place. "We suppose 
the mare had some fun, Gilbert got to gather up his outfit, and we got 
this item. 

The Dark River 

Last week we were pained and saddened beyond expression at a 
short notice, first seen in the Canton correspondence to the Peoria 
Journal announcing the death of S. D. Miner, on the morning of Dec. 
26, 1888. It was not a surprise to us, for we had been watching for it, 
and expecting it. But we are never prepared for the death of a dear 
friend. "We had known for two years that the seal of death was 
stamped on a brow as noble as ever was bared to be kissed by the 
dews, and bathed in the glad sunlight of God. That a life was doomed 
that was as true, as brave, as manly as ever left its impress on thei 
passing years. He was no relation to us, and we knew him as one of 
those peculiar, tender ties that sprang up between us as teacher and 
scholar. During a period of 20 years spent in the school room, we 
formed many friendships of which we are as grateful as we are proud. 
But amongst them all none was stronger, purer, better or more recip- 
rocal than that of S. D. Miner, whom we knew from almost the first 
dawn of an intellect that was far above the ordinary. For several 
years he was a pupil with us, and he was the model there, as he was in 
every relation in life, both at that time and subsequently. In truth 
we are free to say — and without disparagement to many others whom 
we love, and whose memory is still cherished by us — he was the closest, 
the aptest, the most persevering, the most thorough in all departments 
of study of any pupil ever under our charge. There was that some- 
thing, that congeniality of tastes, purposes and aims between us that 
it seemed to us the boy was more companion than pupil. He had strong 
individuality, and did his own thinking; but he was always ready to 
obey any command made by the teacher whether he approved of it 
or not, and that obedience was grand and free as his own noble nature. 



I 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 431 

It is needless to say that we watched him grow in stature, and expand 
in intellect, until he became the robust young man, with a mind 
abundantly stored with useful knowledge — for he was a student every- 
where — and giving promise of a life of great usefulness. Deception, 
deceit, fraud, hypocrisy had no place in his nature. He went west 
after his scholastic career ended, and his great thoroughness made him 
a business success. He had a friend who had consumption, and he 
took care of him with that devotion that he ever had for those who 
commanded his respect, and he contracted the disease, and was soon 
beyond the reach of human aid. But there was not a murmur. His 
was a scientific mind, and he tested religion as he did everything else, 
and accepted its great and glorious truths just as he accepted any- 
thing he believed, with his whole heart. He hated slavery, despised 
tobacco, and abhorred the rum traffic. 

Two years ago, while in Canton, we called to see him and spent an 
hour or two with him. He was cheerful and happy, with all the 
splendid faculties of his mind in full play, and discussed the leading 
questions of politics, science and religion as though he were in robust 
health. H« spoke of the old happy days at "Sunny Side," where our 
friendship began, spoke of his plans that he had laid for life, and 
referred to the end of all in death without a tremor of voice, though 
tell-tale tears filled our eyes and dimmed our vision. He did not hint 
that his career was ended, but said that God had other and better 
plans for him. As we sat there and listened to him, we had a grander, 
a higher, a better view of the power of genuine religion to solace the 
human soul, A year ago in November we saw him again, and had our 
last conversation with him. He was thinner, weaker, feebler than 
when we saw him last, but those wonderful faculties were bright aa 
ever, and that strong faith had not altered. He was not an enthusiast 
nor a fanatic, but he spoke of religion as he would of any other busi- 
ness of life. Some time ago we received a letter from him — it was 
during the bright, beautiful, balmy fall weather — and he spoke in 
glowing terms of the beauties of nature, the goodness of God, and just 
as placidly of his approaching demise. He was permitted to spend 
Christmas on earth, but the next day he sweetly and peacefully passed 
into eternity, as though he were but going to sleep. And on this 
bright, glad New Year's, as we sit here in tears and sorrow, striving 
to do justice to the friendship and memory of one we learned to love, 
we know that he is basking in the glories of the heavenly world, and 
that those rare gifts that made his life so noble, brave, true and 
courageous are being used in better and nobler purposes than they 
could have been on earth. He was 30 years of age, but let us remem- 
ber that his life is longest who lives to the best advantage. Farewell, 
dear friend. 



432 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Fortieth Anniversary 

Friday night was the fortieth anniversary of the wedding of Ross 
S. and Mrs. Taylor, and it was made the occasion of an enjoyable 
celebration, held at their home in Yates City. As it came so near the 
glad Christmas time, it was made a double celebration, and a Christ- 
mas tree for the house of Taylor was made part of the entertainment. 
An elegant supper was served, and a royal good time was ^njoyed by 
all. Their children presented them with a fine rug, and the children 
all received presents on the tree that made their hearts glad, and it 
was an event that will not soon be forgotten by the little ones. 

A fine supper was served and the entire affair was such a success 
that it certainly was one of the most elaborate, happy and joyful of 
all the Christmas entertainments given in the city. Ross S. and Mrs. 
Taylor are among the best beloved old people in this place, and they 
are held in highest esteem, not only by their own children, but by all 
who know them. Those present were W. H. Taylor, wife and son, of 
Rapatee ; L. B. Hughbanks and sons, Harold and Granville, of Rapa- 
tee ; Norman and Mrs. Foster, Earle B. and Mrs. Runyon and son Dale, 
C. M. and Mrs. Corbin and Mrs. Bessie Johnston, R. W. and Mrs. 
Taylor and son Roland, Fred B. and Mrs. Taylor and daughter Vera. 

Death of a Sweet Babe 

Last Sunday the little daughter of Lewis and Mrs. Myers died at 
the home of its parents, in the Uniontown neighborhood, at the age 
of 11 months. We are told that the cause of death was catarrhal 
fever. The death of a child is the saddest thing we have any knowl- 
edge of. In this case it was rendered doubly so by the sickness of 
the mother, who was too ill to follow the body of her dear little darling 
to its last resting place. The funeral was held Monday afternoon, the 
cortege reaching the Yates City cemetery at 2:15 o'clock. The writer 
had been called to the cemetery, and happened to be there when the 
child was buried, and we will not soon forget the scene. It was a 
beautiful October day — one of those rare days that come in this rare 
month — the month that tinges the flowers, the shrubs, the trees with 
the first faint indications of that decay which is inevitable. The air 
was calm and still, and filled with that peculiar haze that gives to our 
earlier fall days their wondrous grandeur and beauty; the sunlight, 
mellowed by this faint haze, was blending the colorings over a land- 
scape so lovely that it has no rival — not even in sunny Italy. 

The carriages — perhaps a dozen in number — headed by the black 
plumed hearse, in which rested the beautiful tiny casket of spotless 
white, were drawn up in a straight line, one tier of lots south of the 
little open grave, and extending almost to the west line of the cemetery ; 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 433 

the occupants alighted and stood for a moment beside them; the 
undertaker took up the casket, and the father, the relatives and friends 
closed in in order and followed to the grave, where they stood in mute 
sorrow; the sexton and undertaker slowly lowered the casket to its 
final resting place ; the assembly reverently uncovered their heads, and 
the aged minister made a brief address, touching on God's right to call 
even children back to himself, spoke of the love of Christ for little 
children, referred to the need of all to be converted and become as a 
little child, thanked the kind friends for help and sympathy, and 
closed with a prayer in which he spoke tenderly of the absent mother, 
pronounced the benediction, and the friends left the grave, re-entered 
the waiting rigs, and we found ourselves alone, save for the presence 
of the old sexton and the little white casket. 

How we did wish for the genius of the great painter that we might 
paint that burial scene as it really appeared to us that autumn after- 
noon; that we could have made the canvas glow with the beauty, the 
pathos, the sadness of the laying away of the child in the bosom of 
the mother earth. Could we have done this, we would have taken the 
speaking semblance to the sorrowing mother, that her tear dimmed 
eyes might behold it, and we would have written beneath it 

"Earth hath no sorrow 
That heaven cannot heal." 

But heaven gave not to me such power, and so I write, and as I write 
I feel the poverty of words that come to us, and realize that abler 
pens than that which we command might fail to do such subject justice, 
and so we leave it thus, and only pause to say that if you grasp the 
meaning of this, as it appears to us, and yet your eyes are dry, then 
can we only say you are cast in sterner mold than is the writer. 

Married 

At the residence of the bride's parents, Mr. and Mrs. E. M. Collins, 
five miles east of Knoxville, on Wednesday, October 31, 1894, at 6 
o'clock p. m., Mr. Frank E. Wilson of Yates City and Miss Kate 
Collins. Rev. Dennis performed the ceremony, which was witnessed 
by about 80 relatives and friends. After a sumptuous repast the newly 
wedded pair left for St. Louis for a few days' visit. They will return 
to Knoxville Saturday and on Monday they will come to Yates City, 
where they will reside. They were the recipients of a large number of 
valuable presents. Mr. Wilson is cashier of the Farmers' bank of 
this place and is a man of sterling worth, irreproachable character and 
undoubted business ability. The bride is an estimable and accom- 
plished young lady, having many fine traits of head and heart. The 
"Banner" hereby extends most hearty congratulations. 



434 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Three of the Sweetest Little Girls 

In our opinion there is nothing so sweet as three pretty little girls, 
except, possibly, three large beautiful girls — and all who were present 
at the VanMeter-Lehman wedding will concur, for they saw those two 
little flower girls, Elizabeth and Leah Harriss — twins, and aged six 
years — and little Edith Cunningham, who preceded the bride and 
groom bearing the wedding ring on a handsome silk plush cushion. 
She perhaps five years old, wore a silk costume, and was lovely as a 
dream. The two former are daughters of Lincoln E. and Jennie 
(Cunningham) Harriss — the latter now dead — and the latter is the 
daughter of Ed and Fanny (Ejiable) Cunningham. The three little 
ladies are relatives of the bride, and they were lovely as a fairy vision. 

True to the Former Home 

Elsewhere in this paper we publish a communication from Ora E. 
Chapin of Chicago, in regard to The Knox County Association of 
Chicago. In the battle of life the sons and daughters of Knox county 
may be assigned to duty on the distant skirmish line, but they do not 
forget the old home, and they look forward to the time when they will 
get a furlough and return to visit the dear old familiar scenes. Your 
KJiox county man or woman, when away, is an exile, with all the 
exile's yearnings for home. Ora E. Chapin is the son of our valued 
friends, Burrell and Mrs. Chapin of Knoxville, and is a successful 
lawyer in Chicago. 

She Has Come! 

Who has? "Why, Ed. Cunningham's first baby, and she is a daisy. 
She was born on Thursday afternoon, April 3, 1890, making her advent 
into the world in the midst of a terrific hail storm. Ed. is setting up 
the cigars, and we congratulate both the parents. 

To Our Generous Friends 

The editor of the Banner was honored by being invited to make 
the address at the Decoration Day exercises in Yates City. "We ac- 
cepted the invitation, feeling that it was an evidence of confidence on 
the part of the citizens of our own town, in our ability to perform the 
task with some measure of success, and that confidence was fully ap- 
preciated by us, while at the same time we fully realized that at home 
is the most difficult and trying place to do justice to one's self, or 
measure up to the expectations of the audience. 

On so many occasions we have had evidences of the just and gen- 
erous approval of our dear friends, indulgent neighbors and consider- 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 435 

ate fellow citizens, that we had no anxiety in regard to receiving recog- 
nition for any merit our humble effort might have, and we were sure 
that any defects it might contain would receive the most gentle criti- 
cism possible. 

But we were scarcely prepared for the reception given us when we 
came forward to make the address, nor for the hearty applause that 
so often marked its delivery, nor yet for the unmistakable evidences 
of approval that was given at its close. 

We are not going to say that we were not pleased and gratified 
by the treatment given us, for we are not indifferent to the approval 
of our fellow citizens, and we desire to state that while the greeting 
we received when we faced that fine audience was a complete sur- 
prise to us, that it was, to us, the most prized of any we have ever 
received, because it was given by those we have learned to esteem and 
love, whose good opinions we value, and whose generous praise is so 
dear to us. Permit us to say, not in the idle words of flattery, but 
because it is true, that whatever of merit was found in that address 
was largely due to the inspiration of that generous greeting. 

We would fail in a duty we feel to be incumbent did we neglect 
to give expression to our grateful, hearty and sincere thanks, not only 
for the treatment we received during the delivery of the address, but 
for the kindness of the large number who came to congratulate us 
while leaving the opera house, on the streets, and as occasion has since 
offered. 

Our only regret is that the demands made on our time by other 
duties prevented us from giving the address more thought, and that 
our ability is not greater, so that we might better have served a people 
whose approval we value above all other honors. 

A Very Sad Death 

One of the saddest deaths that it has fallen to our lot to record 
was that of Mrs. Lizzie Steward, wife of John C. Steward, which 
occurred at their home on the R. J. McKeighan farm, where Mr. 
Steward has been employed as a farm hand for the past 14 months, at 
5 o'clock a. m., Friday, March 13, 1903, just a few hours after the 
birth of her babe. Her maiden name was Lizzie Spurlock, and her 
people live at London Mills, where the remains were taken Saturday 
morning, and at which place the funeral was held Sunday. We did 
not learn her age, but it is supposed from 32 to 35. She leaves the 
husband and 7 children, the oldest a girl of about 14 years. The 
family were well liked in the community and the grief stricken husband 
and the seven motherless children have the sincere sympathy of all 
our people. Such a sad, sad ease touches every heart. 



436 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Injustice 

While walking down 55th street in Chicago recently, in company 
with an intelligent laboring man, the writer was struck forcibly by a 
statement made by his companion. This street is now called Garfield 
Boulevard, and it is certainly made very beautiful. We were speaking 
of this, and of the continuous line of autos, electric cabs and motor- 
cycles that were passing, when he said: *'Yes, this is all very nice, 
but it grinds me to think that while we are all taxed for these fine 
driveways, only the rich people of Chicago can enjoy them." The 
remark startled me. It was not the complaint of an anarchist, nor the 
dream of a socialist, but the protest of a native born American, whose 
relatives fought in the rebellion, offering their lives as sacrifices on 
the altar of their country, a well read thinking man, and yet he evi- 
dently felt that he was not getting a fair deal in the struggle for 
existence. This man evidently sees the injustice of the power held by 
the favored classes, and he resents it most bitterly. We did not argue 
the question. But it made such an impression on us that we have 
not been able to get it out of our mind. The ignorant anarchist will 
never overturn what now exists. The enthusiastic socialist may never 
enact the reforms he aims at, but mark the prediction, the law favored 
classes, whose greed, arrogance and oppression make life so dreary a 
round of hopeless toil for the masses, has a dangerous enemy in this 
thinking native American, and those who believe as he does. 

Davidson Was Late 

Editor W. T. Davidson walked over from Elmwood Wednesday 
morning to get the Rushville passenger for Lewistown, but he failed 
to connect, the train having gone two minutes before he got to the 
depot. The ordinary man would have said some naughty words, but 
long years of editorial work has made Mr. Davidson a philosopher, 
and 80 he did not give way to wrath, but came over to our office, 
where we settled some great questions, state and national, gave up 
the labor question as beyond our ken, and mutually agreed that if we 
could we would reach out the strong hand of love and gently but firmly 
lift the great, toiling, suffering, struggling mass of humanity out of 
the power of the saloon, out of the infamy of the gambler's hell, out 
of the rotten, seething cesspool of social impurity, out of the darkness 
of ignorance and superstition, up into the glorious freedom, the 
honesty, the health, the light of right living, right thinking, and right 
worship. Will these intentions of two provincial editors be remem- 
bered when wrecked worlds hang black and motionless in space, and 
all men are standing in one great company, without hope, and destitute 
of ambition? Brother Davidson went back to Elmwood to remain 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 437 

with his wife until the coming of the evening train. If Editor David- 
son passes over to the rest of heaven a little before us we may be fool- 
ish enough to stop the almost ceaseless moil and grind of newspaper 
toil to shed a tear or two, for we respect the large hearted tenderness 
that cannot be hidden by the rough and ready exterior of W. T. 
Davidson. 

The Hotel Banquet 

Thursday, August 18, 1904, was a sort of red letter day for Yates 
City, for the reason that on that day the New American Hotel was 
formally opened by a banquet given by the proprietors. The good 
people of Yates City — so many of them as could get away from the 
pressing cares of business — responded to the invitations liberally, and 
were in attendance, not only to enjoy the good things provided, but 
also to show that they appreciated the enterprise of A, J. and Mrs. 
Kightlinger in furnishing Yates City with such complete and up-to-date 
hotel facilities. 

The banquet was in charge of Wm. Treager, the popular restau- 
rateur of Peoria, who sent his chief chef, Wm. Parr, and his wife, 
to take charge of the culinary department. It is needless to state that 
the banquet was fine, consisting of seven courses, and faultlessly served. 
Speeches were made by Rev. H. F. Schreiner and others, and the Faith 
Harp orchestra furnished music during the day, and for the dance, 
which was in the Opera House in the evening, and which proved to be a 
very pleasant affair. 

There were many traveling men and strangers from neighboring 
towns who came to enjoy the day. 

The opening banquet is only an earnest of what the New American 
Hotel promises for Yates City and the traveling public. 

Born 

Born to Mr. and Mrs. Earle Runyon, a son, Monday, March 25, 
1907. It is the first child in the family, and therefore a most important 
event. The mother was formerly Miss Norma Pittman, and the event 
is also important in that Mrs. Alice Pittman is now a grandmother. 
Of course she is inclined to put on airs, which she has a perfect right 
to do. Mrs. F. J. Runyon, the other grandmother in this case, was 
promoted to that office nearly six months ago, and this attack is lighter 
in her case. 

The parents are among the most popular young married people 
of this community and are being congratulated by all their friends, and 
the Banner joins in heartily, and its wish is that this son may long be 
a joy and a comfort to them. 



438 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Adams-Crenshaw 

Mr. W. H. Adams of this city was united in marriage to Miss Flora 
Bell Crenshaw of Christopher, 111., Sunday evening, Dee. 24, at 2:30, 
at the home of the bride's parents in Christopher. They are spending 
a few days with home folks here, after which they will return to 
Christopher, where they will make their future home. 

The Deestrict Skule 

The Thanksgiving entertainment this year, for the benefit of the 
library, was varied somewhat, and instead of the usual program and 
festival, the Deestrict Skule was given, and it proved a success as a 
money maker, the seats all being sold, with over a hundred applica- 
tions who were turned away for want of room, while as high as $1 
was paid for seats to parties fortunate enough to have them. 

The hall was literally packed with one of the most attentive, ap- 
preciative and best behaved audiences ever seen in the hall. 

The piece is too well known to need a special write up. It was 
fairly well rendered, when the difiiculties are considered. The stage 
is too small for such a play. 

Those taking part were Mr. and Mrs. T. J. Kightlinger, Mr. and 
Mrs. L. D. Fletcher, Mr. and Mrs. A. German, Mr. and Mrs. J. W. 
Wood, Mr. and Mrs. Smith Rhea, Mr. and Mrs. Peter Garrison, Mr. 
and Mrs. John Conver, Mr. and Mrs. Arwine Garrison, Mr. and Mrs. 
Wm. Macklin, Frank Barnhill, 0. B. West, Chas. Bird, W. F. Boyes, 
M. W, Thomson, Mrs. Jacob Lehman, Mrs. G. D. Pendell, Miss Ella 
Houser, Miss Lizzie Spickard, S. C. Henry, E. F. Taylor, L. A. Thom- 
son, and Mrs. F. H. Chamberlain. 

The music was furnished by the high school chorus, the young 
ladies' quartet and a trio of girls. 

Mr. Curtis Beal gave an oration entitled "A Medley," which was 
alone worth the price of admission. It was a fine thing, exceedingly 
well done, and he received great applause. 

The receipts were over $65.00, and as the expenses were small, the 
library will realize a neat sum. 

Prof. Boyes and his corps of teachers did much to make the enter- 
tainment a success. 

A Family Tree 

A Christmas family tree and a supper was given at the home of 
F. H. and Mrs. Chamberlain on West Main street, Monday evening. 
Roscoe and Mrs. Goold and their two children, and Jay A. and Mrs. 
McLaughlin and their little daughter, and Glen Chamberlain, who is 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 439 

home for the holiday vacation, making the entire family circle, were 
present to enjoy the occasion. The little folks were made happy by 
the fruits of the Christmas tree, and even the older ones felt the glow 
of an added enjoyment when the tree had yielded its store of valued 
gifts. It was one of those family reunions that make the separated 
ones look forward to the holidays with so much of genuine pleasure. 
These family trees, family dinners and family reunions are more 
and more becoming popular. 

Appreciation 

The most agreeable thing that we have done in Yates City has 
been to express our appreciation of a large number of valued friends 
who have always stood by us in any time of trouble, sickness or sorrow, 
who have cast the broad mantle of a generous charity over our mis- 
takes and imperfections, and have always credited us with an honest 
intention to do the right as we have understood it. The occurrences 
of the past few days have deepened our obligations to those dear 
friends. They can never know how deeply we feel obliged for their 
confidence. We are glad to be able to place in this list such men as 
Jacob Lehman, Walter Bailey, W. G. West, D. B. Sargent, R. A. Fulton, 
T. L. Long, J. L. Searl, J. Mason, Wilson Adams, C. L. Roberts, L. A. 
Lawrence, S. M. Taylor, J. M. Cool, Dr. J. D. C. Hoit, the Corbins, the 
Mathews, the Rogers, Dr. W. T. Royce, E. Rogers, J. W. Dixon, F. D. 
Thomson, Nelson Cunningham, M. H. Pease, the Coreys, Dr. H. J. 
Hensley, Thomas Terry, C. A. Stetson, B. Bevans, James Clancy, I. C. 
Enoch, W. H. Houser, and very many others just as good, but whom we 
may not stop to name. Among them we wish to specially remember 
Wilson Adams, Walter Bailey and L. A. Lawrence, whose voluntary 
and generous offers of assistance has made a profound impression on 
our minds. It puts us under renewed obligations to so conduct our- 
selves that we may merit and continue to hold the good opinion of 
such men. 

Died 

Myrta Carter, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. D. M. Carter, and sister 
of Mrs. Dr. H. J, Hensley, died at Phoenix, Arizona, on Tuesday, at 
5 o'clock p. m., of consumption. The telegram announcing her death 
was not unexpected, but it was not the less a shock to the many friends 
of the dear girl. She has been sick but a few months, and when it was 
seen that her case was hopeless here, she was taken to Arizona as a 
last hope. But God has called her, and we all bow in deep sorrow for 
her whom love could not save. She was 20 years of age, and well 
known here, where she spent nearly all her life. Her obituary notice 
will appear later, but we cannot refrain from expressing our grief at 



440 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

her death and sympathy for her family. We do not forget the efforts 
of Mr. and Mrs. Carter to help us when two of our own dear girls 
died ; nor do we forget how much Myrta did to make pleasant the last 
two years of Cora's life. They are united now, but how our hearts 
sorrow for them ! 

The funeral will take place from the family residence on Union 
street at 2 o'clock p. m., Monday, April 16, 1894, that being as soon 
as the long, sad journey home can be accomplished. 

Married 

Miss Nettie Beale, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. S. K. Beale of north 
of town, was married to Mr, Charles Kerr on Thursday evening, April 
19, 1894, Rev. J. H. Clark performing the ceremony, which was wit- 
nessed by a large company of relatives and friends. The bride is well 
known to the people here, is an accomplished and winsome lady, and 
has a host of friends in this city and vicinity, where she has grown to 
womanhood. The groom is a native of Maryland, a young man of 
good habits, worthy of the noble woman he has won. After the cere- 
mony the company sat down to an elegant and sumptuous repast, to 
which they did full justice. The Banner joins heartily in wishing the 
young couple happiness and prosperity. The presents were numerous 
and costly. Those in attendance from here were Mr. and Mrs. Smith 
Rhea, Mr. and Mrs. J. A. Hensley, Mr. and Mrs. F. H. Chamberlain, 
and Mr. Albert A. McKeighan. 

A Family Gathering 

There was a pleasant family reunion held in this city since our 
last issue. Mr. M. S. Jordan is one of the staunch business men of 
Yates City, having long been engaged in the grocery business. There 
are two brothers, Harvey and Justin, and a sister, Mrs. Mattie A. 
Bowman. The two brothers live in Galesburg, and the sister at 
Wichita, Kan. Last Saturday they all came to Yates City and spent 
Sunday and Monday with M. S. They made a party of thirteen, con- 
stituted as follows, the names being given in the order of their ages: 
Mr. and Mrs. Harvey Jordan and son Elmer, and their married daugh- 
ter, Mrs. Marion Smith, her husband and child ; Mr. M. S. Jordan, who 
has never been married ; Mrs. Mattie A. Bowman and daughter Minnie ; 
Mr. and Mrs. Justin Jordan and their two children, Maude and Harlan. 

They all met at M. S. Jordan's rooms over C. A. Stetson's store, 
and all took meals at the Commercial Hotel. On Sunday morning they 
all attended services at the M. E. Church. They spent most of one day 
at the old Jordan homestead, now the R. F. Anderson place, just east 
of the city limits. 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 441 

Took a Spin 

Wednesday about 1 o'clock W. T, Corbin loaded a cow in to his 
spring wagon, on which is a high rack, and Elmer Kightlinger mounted 
the high seat — on top of the rack — and started the ponies for Maquon. 
As he turned into Union street a sideling place on the road tipped the 
wagon, throwing the driver and the cow both out. The ponies started, 
the wagon righted itself, and the wild race was on. They went south, 
fairly in the road, and did not halt until they were stopped by Sam 
Wilson's gate, two miles and a half from town. The lines and harness 
were broken some, but the ponies and wagon were not injured. Elmer 
got a hard fall, but while sore, was not seriously hurt. 

Birthday Party 

On Wednesday evening, Nov. 14, 1894, a large company of friends 
and schoolmates met at the home of Freddie Jacobs to celebrate his 
eleventh birthday. 

He received quite a number of nice presents. Master Freddie 
entertained the company in a very pleasing manner. The evening was 
spent in playing games and other amusements. Refreshments were 
served, which were enjoyed by every one. After wishing Freddie 
many happy birthdays the company dispersed. 

Those who were present are as follows: Lizzie Spickard, Mable 
Pittman, Bertha Chamberlain, Edith Chamberlain, Mollie Larson, 
Emma Larson, Jessie Larson, Gus Larson, Susie Sandall, Florence 
Nash, Alice Hand, Myrl Dixon, Maud Schlenker, Eula Schlenker, Pearl 
Runyon, Earl Runyon, Minnie German, Lotta Bird, Alta Bird, Myrtie 
Kennedy, Susie Gollidy, Nora Kjellenberg, Hulda Peterson, Lena Ramp, 
Laura Ramp, May Ramp, Otis Bowman, Freddie Sandall, Eddie San- 
dall, Graham Widmeyre, Harlem Bird, Delmar Nash, Floy Bear, Lulu 
Hand, Lura Nash, Florence Smith, Lois Anderson, Harry Anderson, 
Eddie Larson, Ralph Dixon and Irwin German. 

In California 

Yates City people have not lost interest in three young men who 
left here two years ago for the state of California. They were Philip 
Gonzoles, Omer Barker and Douglass Barker. The two latter had 
grown up in Yates City, graduated from her school, and had endeared 
themselves to all, and more especially to the young people. The family 
was afflicted by that dread disease consumption, the only sister, Minnie, 
falling a victim to the disease. Omer had determined on a collegiate 
course at Lombard, but the inroads of insidious disease warned him 



442 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

that a persistence in his purpose would be fatal, so they determined to 
seek a change of climate. They went to Riverside, California, where 
they took off their coats, rolled up their sleeves and went to work, the 
first job being to pick oranges. Omer then got a job as bookkeeper in 
a fruit canning establishment, and afterward became clerk in a hotel, 
where he continued until he became satisfied that our door exercise 
would be better for him. He then went up some five miles to a higher 
altitude, and took charge of the water works, until he got a school ; he 
is now teaching the school at Banning, and is enjoying robust health. 
Douglass has charge of a gang of Chinese fruit packers. Mr. Gonzoles 
is keeping books at the office of the Irrigating Company. 

We mention these young men because they are examples of what 
can be done by those who have been well raised at home, have grown 
up under the advantages of good schools and a fine public school 
library and have energetically applied themselves to the pursuit of 
useful knowledge. 

Mr. Charles Barker, who resides here, has reason to be proud of 
the boys whom he brought up under common sense kind of family 
government. "We expect to hear of the continued success of these 
friends, and we shall always be glad to record the same. 

Calaista Loveland Dawdy 

The sympathy of the entire people of Knox county goes out to 
L. J, Dawdy and his afflicted family on the death of his daughter, 
Calaista Loveland Dawdy, who died at the family residence in Maquon 
on the evening of July 4, 1888, after a long illness of consumption, at 
the age of 17 years and 5 months. She was gifted, talented and lovely, 
both in mind and body. She was a general favorite among all who 
knew her. She exhibited the most lofty heroism during her hopeless 
sickness, and met death with a calm fortitude that astonished her 
friends. As a friend of the family we attended the funeral at the M. E. 
Church on Friday at 10 o'clock a. m. It was the most beautiful funeral 
we ever attended. The costly and elegant casket was pure white, 
emblematic of the purity of her young life. Six young ladies, all 
dressed in white, acted as bearers, while four others, also dressed in 
white, followed, carrying the rich profusion of beautiful flowers that 
the hand of affection had provided. The church was literally packed, 
and could not afford room for all who wished to honor the memory 
of the lamented dead, and show their respect and sympathy for the 
mourning family. As we looked into the emaciated face of the beau- 
tiful dead, and remembered how she was loved, and how worthy she 
was of all the affection bestowed on her, we could not but feel that 
the father and mother had a rich legacy in the memory of such a noble 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 443 

daughter. They have our sympathy, and may God bless them in this 
hour of severe trial. They have laid a treasure in the earth, but it is 
not lost. Of her it can be truthfully said: 

None knew her but to love her, 
None named her but to praise. 

John Brimmer 

John Brimmer is a touristic dispenser of fish. He peregrinates over 
the rich prairie soil, across the clay knobs, and along the rich alluvial 
deposits that skirt our streams, and sells fish to saint and sinner, old 
and young, rich and poor, high and low, black and white, license or 
anti-license, alike. Monday he got tangled in the mystic mazes along 
the brakes of French creek and Spoon river, and wandered around 
like a lost ram in Israel until he came within hailing distance of an old 
granger who was piling roots in a piece of newly broken brush land, 
when he called out: ''Say, you, old man, where be I?" The old 
granger gave John the directions, and he struck for Yates City with 
the same alacrity that a three-months-old pup would make for a pan 
of new milk. It may be well enough to state that we overheard Carter 
giving the above facts, in strict confidence, to one whom he was sure 
would not breathe it to a living soul. But it is our duty to give the 
news, and we must do it. 

A First Settler 

Mr, Thomas Capperrune, of Milo, Bureau County, 111., came down 
on Friday and remained in the city and vicinity until Monday morn- 
ing visiting friends, relatives and old neighbors. He was one of the 
first settlers in Salem township, having come here from Ohio in 1839. 
He worked a short time for Mr. Ewalt and then bought the land now 
owned by Andy Alpaugh, where he remained until 1850, when he 
bought a farm four miles east of Bradford, Stark County, the farm 
being in Bureau County. He has been an active member of the M. E. 
Church since he was a young man, and organized the first prayer meet- 
ing and Sabbath School in this part of the country. While here Uncle 
Dick Corbin took him out to visit M. B. Mason, a visit that Mr. Capper- 
rune enjoyed very much, having known Mr. Mason before he left Ohio. 
He is a hale, hearty, jovial old man of 72 years, an active republican 
in politics, and a man who takes a decided interest in all that tends 
to the public good. It is needless to say that he is a staunch temper- 
ance man, and has no sympathy with the unholy whisky traffic. 



444 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

A Brave Young Man 

There is one brave young man in Yates City, and we honor him. 
Last Friday he came into the office, and without making any threats, 
or claiming that he knew how to run the machine, told us where he 
thought we had made mistakes. It surprised us, being so out of the 
ordinary mode of treatment we have received. We cannot say that we 
coincided in his views, but we thank him for his kind intention, and 
his gentlemanly manner. We studied over it after he was gone — he 
paid us in advance for his paper before going — and we own right up 
that we had serious intentions of apologizing for those items. That 
we may not be misunderstood, we will state that these items had no 
reference to the whisky traffic. Such kindly criticisms we value, for 
"He is our friend who tells us of our faults." 

Uncle Dick 

Some of the worshipers at the M. E. church were struck all of 
a heap, on last Sunday evening, by what they at first supposed was 
an "appergoshen." On thorough investigation it proved to be Uncle 
Dick Corbin. It has been perhaps ten or fifteen years since Mr. Cor- 
bin has cut such a caper, and it is no wonder people were startled. 
He was heartily congratulated, especially by the sisters. It tran- 
spired that Mr. Corbin simply went to accompany his old and valued 
friend, Mr. Thomas Capperrune, whose Methodism is of that pro- 
nounced type that prods him up to attend the services of the sanc- 
tuary without fail. Mr. Corbin was pleased with the sermon, and 
behaved just as if he was a regular attendant. 

The Lyceum 

The open meeting of the lyceum on Friday evening, drew a 
comfortable house, and those who attended were certainly well repaid. 
The house was called to order by T. W. Thomson, and the secretary, 
Miss Lura Kightlinger, read the minutes of the last meeting. Before 
the program of the evening was taken up, Mr. Egidius Schoenberger 
was called to the chair, and during the meeting presided in a very 
neat and quiet manner. The order was most excellent, which speaks 
well for a crowd composed almost entirely of young people. A 
quartette rendered a selection, Bertha Lehman gave a recitation, and 
Glace Kennedy a select reading. Miss Georgia Roberts read a paper 
on "Chautauqua," Egidius Schoenberger gave a personation, T. W. 
Thomson read a paper on the coal measures of America, and Walter 
Kightlinger offered an essay on the "Great Northwest." Of these 
papers that on Chautauqua, the one on the Coal Measures and that 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 445 

on the Northwest were most excellent. A short recess was then taken, 
after which George Anderson read an original poem that had a rich 
vein of humor in it, May Maxwell rendered a good recitation, and 
Maggie Fulton gave a second personation, A charade by Bertha 
Lehman, Glace Kennedy, Walter Kightlinger and George Anderson 
was then given. Then came the debate, the question being, "Resolved, 
That the present site of the state fair is preferable to Peoria." The 
affirmative was sustained by Frank Wilson and Paul Montgomery, 
and the negative by Albert McKeighan and Walter Kightlinger. We 
suspect that all the debaters really believed in the negative side, but 
the affirmative stood by their colors and got the decision. After some 
routine business, the members of the school board were called on, 
and L. A. Lawrence and Jacob Lehman responded in neat speeches. 
A call for Editor McKeighan brought that mouth warrior to the 
front for a short time, and then a motion to adjourn was carried. 
Mr. Claude N. Anderson was the critic, and we think he did justice 
in his remarks. If this evening is a sample of the society, it is in 
good condition. There was no asking to be excused, no saying "I am 
not prepared," but all responded promptly, and all were apparently 
ready for his or her part. The order was most excellent, and par- 
liamentary rules were observed in every act. It is to be hoped that 
they will prepare another program for an open meeting before long. 

John R. Hahn 

John R. Hahn, of Canton, was in town Monday evening, and of 
course he called on us. He has just got a patent on a machine for 
making light from acetylene gas, and he may soon loom up in the 
same class with Jay Gould, Bill Vanderbilt and Mark Hanna. John is 
a philosopher from his youth up. In the days gone by when we sat 
in the teacher's chair at Sunnyside, with a wide strap in our hand — 
the insigna of our authority and the terror of the pupils — we have 
watched John carefully as he dug the toes of his small boots into a 
crack, fixed one eye on the strap with furtive glance, while the other 
wandered off into space, and we thought that the kid had worms, 
but now we know that dim shadowy visions of acetylene gas was 
what doubled the boy up as if he had a terrible pain in his inwards, 
and that worms were an unkown quantity in the equation. Ah ! little 
did we think then that we would be clicking type in this dingy office, 
and that John would come in to grip the feebler hand within his 
sturdier grasp, and tell us of his success, while the old time smile 
lit up his honest face. We are glad to congratulate John, for the 
glad and happy days of Sunnyside are becoming dim shadows of the 
past, and many of the dear boys and girls whom it was a pleasure 



446 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

to instruct, have been passed into the higher room, and are learning 
under the wise instructions of the only Great Teacher. 

William Simpson 

Mr. William Simpson and wife — formerly Miss Sarah Mathews — 
who now resides near Fort Scott, Kansas, are visiting friends here, 
at Farmington and Peoria. Mr. Simpson's father and mother came 
to Illinois, from Philadelphia, in 1832, and settled a short distance 
South of Farmington, being afterward joined by the Browns, the 
Mathewses and the McKeighans. The elder Simpson was a man re- 
markable for intelligence, piety and industry. He was an Elder in 
the Presbyterian church at Farmington, being elected at the time of 
the organization of that body, and continuing an acting elder until his 
death, which resulted from a fall off the roof of his own house, which 
he was repairing, his skull being fractured by striking on a large 
rock that lay in front of the door. His funeral was one of the largest 
ever seen in Farmington, the sermon — preached in the Congregational 
church, on account of its greater seating capacity — was by the then 
pastor of the Presbyterian church. Rev. Wm. A. Fleming, from the 
text, "My Father! my Father! the chariots of Isreal and the horse- 
men thereof," and was as fine a specimen of pulpit eloquence as we 
ever listened to. The death of Mr. Simpson was regarded as a 
calamity to the entire community. 

Wm. Simpson, who is now here, is but a year or two younger 
than the editor of the Banner, and we attended the same Sunday 
school class, Sabbath after Sabbath, at a time when bare feet pre- 
dominated among urchins of our size. Twenty-five years ago next 
winter he married Miss Sarah Mathews, daughter of John and Clara 
Mathews, and sister to W. B,, R. G. and J. J. Mathews. She will be 
remembered as one of the most excellent girls of Salem township, 
at a time when the standard of excellence was higher than at the 
present. 

They went to Kansas the year after their marriage, and have 
resided there since, or for the past 24 years. It gave us much pleasure 
to again grasp the hands of these excellent people, after a separation 
of so many years, not having seen them since 1860. 

And memories of our earlier years 
Crowd o'er us when we meet. 

Has Finished Her Work 

Saturday Mrs. Michael Donahue died at her home in this city. 
Her obituary appears in this issue. Her death is a loss to the com- 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 447 

munity, as well as to her family. None but a good, loving mother 
could have reared a family of children such as her children are. 
These children are a living monument to her wisdom in care and 
training. They are an honor to their mother, and to this com- 
munity. The mother who leaves five such noble children has not 
lived in vain. Never was a mother more tenderly loved and cared 
for by her children. We believe she was loved and appreciated 
by all. This was evidenced by all classes at her funeral, and her 
memory will live in the hearts of all who knew her. 

That Dinner 

The most elaborate spread ever laid in Yates City was that at 
the Commercial Hotel, on New Year's night, being a dinner in honor 
of Dr. Herman J. Hensley. It was given by Mr. and Mrs. Wilson 
Adams, the popular landlord and landlady of that deservedly popular 
hotel. The invitations were given by cards, which were elaborate 
and elegant in design. The dinner was served at 7 o'clock, p. m., 
and was a marvel of the culinary art. It was a credit to even so 
noted a manager of extra dinners as Mrs. Adams is known to be, 
and was prepared by her, with the assistance of her sister, Mrs. 
Stephen Johnson. We will not attempt to go into details, but we 
know that there are twelve good men and true, who will testify that 
it was immense, while their partners will declare that it was just too 
lovely for anything. The guests were all prompt to the appointed 
time, and were Dr. Herman J. Hensley and Miss Etha Carter, Dr. 
and Mrs. J. W. Hensley, Mr. and Mrs. D. M. Carter, Mr. and Mrs. 
Lloyd Wertman, Mr. and Mrs. J. A. Hensley, Mr. and Mrs, Jonas 
Ewalt, Mr. C. A. Stetson and daughter Nelly, Mr. and Mrs. Frank 
Adams, Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Johnson, Mr. and Mrs. Smith Rhea, 
Dr. J. D. C. Hoit, and Mr. and Mrs. A. H. McKeighan. After the 
dessert Dr. Herman J. Hensley arose and thanked those present for 
the honor done him, remarking that he was utterly unable to express 
what his heart felt. Mr. Adams then called on A. H. McKeighan, 
who responded in a few remarks, that the natural modesty of the 
editor prevents us from dwelling on. Mr. Adams then called on 
Dr. J. D. C. Hoit, who read an excellent, able and original poem 
suited to the occasion. The host then gave the guests the freedom 
of the hotel, and the hours flew on all too speedy wings, until the 
time for separation came. The guests bid their generous entertainers 
good night, wished the youthful doctor abundant success in his new 
field, and went home satisfied that they had never been more royally 
entertained, nor spent a more pleasant and happy evening. 



448 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

A Large Hookey- 
Wednesday afternoon nearly all the pupils in the high school, 
and quite a number from the grammer room, played hookey, and 
went to Elmwood, the boys and girls walking the entire distance 
and return. There is no doubt but these pupils thought they were 
doing the cutest, smartest thing that ever was, but no sensible person 
agrees with them. It is a disgrace to themselves, shows disrespect 
to their parents, showed contempt for the authority of their teachers 
and was a direct insult to those Galesburg teachers who were here 
to visit the school. 

The fact is that it was a piece of thoughtless foolishness border- 
ing on idiocy, for which the participants deserve to be punished, and 
we are sorry that our most always splendid boys and girls, should 
have so acted that their own better judgment must fail to approve 
and we are compelled to speak of them in such harsh terms. Shame 
on you, you great gawky Ninnies! Let us hope that coming years 
may bring to them an increase of wisdom, and a more discriminating 
judgment. 

Well Watched 

For more than five years Mrs. Dora Hoxworth has been the 
faithful and efficient housekeeper for the R. B. Corbin family, and 
so well has she done that they determined to give her some token 
of their appreciation. It was thought best to "watch" her, so R. B. 
Corbin, W. T. Corbin and Mr. and Mrs. C. M. Corbin purchased an 
elegant gold watch and chain, and just as the family sat down to 
supper Monday evening, Mrs. C. M. Corbin came in and in a happy 
manner presented it to her. She was completely surprised, and 
almost forgot to eat supper. She is proud of the gift, and well she 
may be, for it is an exceedingly fine timekeeper. 

A Christian Mother 

There she sits, old Christian mother, ripe for heaven. Her eye- 
sight is almost gone, but the splendors of the celestial city kindle 
up her vision. The gray light of heaven's morn has struck through 
the gray locks which are folded back over the wrinkled temples. 
She stoops very much under the burden of care she used to carry for 
her children. She sits at home, too old to find her way to the house 
of God ; but while she sits there all the past comes back, and the 
children that forty years ago tripped around her arm chair, with their 
griefs, and joys, and sorrows — those children are gone now. Some 
she brought up are in a better realm, where they shall never die, 
and others out in the wide world, testing the excellency of a Christian 
mother's discipline. Her last days are full of peace, and calmer and 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 449 



sweeter will her spirit become, until the gates lift and let the worn- 
out pilgrim into eternal springtide and youth, where the limbs never 
ache and the eyes never grow dim, and the staff of the exhausted 
and decrepit pilgrim shall become the palm of the immortal athlete. 

A Welcome Visit 

The editor and Mrs. McKeighan had the pleasure of entertaining 
their dear and valued friends, B. N. and Mrs. Chapin of Knoxville, 
at dinner last Tuesday. For almost 50 years we have known them 
as husband and wife. For 59 years we have known Mr. Chapin as 
boy and man, and it is not strange that we should have enjoyed 
their visit so much. They have been spending the winter in Southern 
California, mostly at Pasadena and Los Angeles, and only returned 
home April 10th. They spent Tuesday night with Chas. and Mrs. 
Sargent, the latter being a relative. Wednesday they visited Mrs. 
Lydia A. Hall. There are only a few of those who mingled in the 
pleasures and labors of those old days, who have not laid down the 
burdens of life and it seems that the ties of early years grow stronger 
as the shadows of the moving years flit over the dial of time. 

Married 

At the residence of the bride's parents, in Yates City, 111., on 
Saturday, October 3, 1896, Mr. Charles T. White, of Davenport, Iowa, 
and Miss Nellie F. Ewing, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Wm. Ewing, 
Squire J. A. Hensley officiating. The wedding took place at 8 o'clock 
p. m. The groom is the son of Thomas White, who recently moved 
to Iowa, while the bride is one of the best girls in Yates City, and 
one of the best friends the Banner has ever had, and it wishes them 
long life, prosperity and happiness. 

Interesting Caller 

Mr. Alexander Todd, of French Grove, Millbrook township, Peoria 
county, called on Tuesday, and spent an hour in the office. He is 
a well preserved old Gentleman of 82 years past, having been born 
in county Tyrone, Ireland, October 31, 1806. He came to the United 
States and resided for some time in Philadelphia, where he made the 
acquaintance of the Mathewses, the Simpsons, the Montgomerys, the 
McKeighans, the Armstrongs, and others, all of whom afterward 
drifted west, settling in Fulton and Knox counties, in this state. 
In 1840 Mr. Todd came to Illinois, settling twelve miles south-west 
of Peoria, where he made for himself a farm of 250 acres. He after- 
wards sold this farm and bought the one where he now resides. On 
the 19th day of June, 1878 the golden wedding of himself and wife 



450 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

was celebrated, on which occasion the old gentleman was presented 
with a fine gold headed ebony cane, the inscription on which bears 
the date of that interesting event. His wife died five years ago. He 
is the father of Mrs. Andrew German, of the firm of German and 
Nelson, and came to the city a week ago last Saturday, to place 
himself under the care of Dr. J. D. C. Hoit, for the relief of an acute 
pain that has located in the hip joint, and has annoyed him for some 
time. He was a Whig in politics, in earlier days, but is now an ardent 
Republican, and a full believer in protection. He is an intelligent 
man, is a reader, has a good memory — we judge — and is well posted 
on passing events. 

Anniversary 

On Wednesday Mr. and Mrs. Enos Kelsey celebrated the 22nd 
anniversary of their wedding, by inviting a company of friends to take 
dinner with them. There was Mrs. Buffum, Mrs. Chapin, Marshall 
Chapin and his little son, Mr. and Mrs. N. Bear, Rev. and Mrs. Tasker, 
Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Routson and two daughters, and Mr. and Mrs. 
A. H. McKeighan. It was a regular old fashioned, enjoyable affair, 
with a splendid dinner, such as only thrifty farmers' wives can provide, 
and was a treat to the company. Mrs. Orena Chapin, the venerable 
mother of Mrs. Kelsey, is eighty years old in the spring, and is as spry 
as many who are not past 60. Rev. Tasker favored the company with 
music and singing, and Mrs. Bear played and sang several pieces, and 
by the way she is an accomplished player and a very superior singer. 
After dinner Rev. Tasker presented Mrs. Kelsey with an elegant pair 
of slippers, a present from her husband, which was a complete surprise 
to her. The day was pleasantly spent, and Joseph Routson desired 
us to say that he got all he wanted to eat. Joe is an old soldier, a 
jovial soul, and is the life of any company. All joined in wishing Mr. 
and Mrs. Kelsey many happy returns of the event. 

Anniversary- 
Saturday, May 26th, 1888, was the 30th, wedding anniversary of 
Mr. and Mrs. W, M. Carroll, who reside on what is known as the 
Brassfield farm, near the Fulton county line. It was a surprise 
gotten up by their children and friends, and was numerously attended, 
their being some 60 people present. Some useful presents were given, 
and a happy afternoon spent in social pleasure. We regret that it 
was not possible for us to accept the kind invitation to be there. 

E. G. Duel's 45th Birthday 

The south-west portion of Salem township is the home of a large 
number of intelligent, industrious, well-to-do farmers, whose broad 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 461 

acres are in a high state of cultivation, whose pastures are covered 
with the best cattle and horses in the state, and whose ample granaries 
are always well filled. Their barns are of the best, and their residences 
are elegant, and well furnished. But while they are looking after 
all these things, they are a social class, and do not forget to enjoy 
themselves, so that we are often called upon to record some social 
gathering or birthday party that has occurred among them. 

Among the most successful of Salem's farmer citizens, may be 
classed E. G. Duel, whose splendid farm, comfortable buildings, well 
tilled acres, fine horses, sleek cattle and fat hogs are noted, and are 
proof that he was calculated for the buisness he is in. 

Last Saturday was the 45th milestone in his life journey, and 
his esteemed wife made it the pleasant occasion for a celebration, that 
was enjoyed by 37 of their friends and neighbors, who gathered at 
the Duel residence, and spent a day that will not soon be forgotten 
by those who were fortunate enough to enjoy the hospitality of that 
home. Mr. Duel was presented with a fine library chair, and several 
other nice presents. They then partook of the repast which Mrs. Duel 
had prepared for the occasion. The day was only too short for the 
happy gathering, and Mr. Duel wishes that birthdays were not confined 
to one day in each year. 

E. R. Brown 

It was with the profoundest sorrow that we learned of the death 
of E. R. Brown, of Elmwood, which took place on Saturday evening 
at 9 'clock. He was an honest man ; he had as kindly a nature as any 
man we have ever known ; he was positive in his opinions, and yet he 
was one of the most tolerant of men; he was literary in his purest 
and best thought, and it was on this common ground that he and 
the writer met and most thoroughly enjoyed themselves. He was 
a deep and an original thinker, a thorough believer in good in human- 
ity, and a strong advocate of the liberty of man, morally, mentally 
and physically. In religion he was a free thinker, in politics a republi- 
can, but he was a patriot rather than a partisan, and he refused to 
follow his party into the gold camp, believing that the free coinage 
of silver was best for the interests of the great industrial classes of 
America. He was not only the friend of man, but of the lower 
animals as well. His death is no ordinary loss, and he will be sincerly 
mourned wherever his kindly face was known. 

Married 

At the residence of Henry Adams, in Yates City, on Thursday 
afternoon, November 22d, 1888, Mr. Elmer Heath and Miss Maggie 
Adams (Kerns), all of Yates City, J. A. Hensley officiating. 



452 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

A Bicycle Idyl 

One week ago today — mark well the time; it was a beauteous 
day ; 'erhead a sky flecked by the fleecy clouds ; a radiant sun poured 
down its mellow light; a rare and wanton day. 

Frank Thomson had a thought to go to Pease Hill. He scorned 
to ride in cart, sidebar, or gay barouche. But he would mount the 
airy bicycle, and skim along, light as the aerial bird, and joyous as 
the maiden coy, whose heart is full of love, while honied words — 
spoke while she hung upon the treacherous gate — still vibrate in 
her ears. 

He bounded to the tiny saddle, with smile serene. Away he sped. 
Out of the sleepy town he flew. Out past George Stone's he bowled, 
and as he passed, his eye alert rested on wheeled vehicles of all kind, 
all wrecked and piled in promiscuous ruin, like caissons where the 
battle late has raged. With nimble whirl he passed old Mullen's 
house. Frank saw the old man stand in wonder gaping wide; on 
his gray head a black felt hat with drooping brim thick covered with 
the cornfield dust ; a denim shirt of brown ; suspenders crossed up near 
his neck, and faded well ; his overalls too short by near an ell, and 
patched with bias piece; his feet in plow shoes large; his legs un- 
conscious that ever socks were knit, he stood, a grand old farmer 
struggling with toil, and sore amazed to think the boy could ride 
so well. 

He turned the Southern road, left just behind the Mathews place, 
passed o'er the bridge below where Goold resides, toiled the tedious 
hill where Sargent lives, passed where the unpretentious Montgomery 
plods, was charmed to see the elegant abode where Mike — the younger 
Sargent — shelters wife and babes, looks o'er the neat trimmed hedge 
and well tilled fields where John X. Tinen delves in mother earth, 
while in his fertile brain revolves maxims wise, and relished bits 
of news that weekly, or as case may be, does grace the Banner's 
page. 

Here West he turns his course, and Salem's sacred walls and 
cupola appears. Here Amy Robinson, with ways to charm the infant 
mind, taught urchins how to climb the knotty tree of knowledge. 
Here later still, fair Mary Stone has trained the opening mind along 
the devious road that leads where knowledge dwells. 

But here a weariness come over Frank. His willing feet had 
moved obedient to his will to force the treadles round, but now they 
craved a rest. His energy was gone, not for all time, but only for a 
season, like those who writhe and bend the body in the ring where 
wrestlers meet to test their skill and strength, grow weary for a 
time. 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 453 

He spied the inviting step that led into the school house yard, 
and turning toward it his inanimate steed, he gracefully did light, and 
rested on the step. His thoughts were various, but mostly of the feet 
of damsels fair, who, in the days gone by, had crossed the steps, for 
being young, and yet scarce versed in love, it was but natural that 
visions of fair damsels flitted through his brain. 

Just westward from the school house a slough crosses the road, 
a treacherous slough, thick set with quags, and mires of most deceit- 
ful mud ; a bridge is over the slough in height twelve feet or more, a 
steep descent is all the approach. At length he mounts, in listless 
mood. Perhaps his nether limbs are stiffened by repose, or has 
he lost his skill? Or is it that the thought of damsels fair, excludes 
all other thoughts? We may not know. But down the steep incline 
the bicycle did rush. He lost control and wildly clawed the air. 
The vile machine a "header" took, just as it reached the bridge; a 
flutter of blue cloth shot through the air, a sound between a thud 
and splash was heard, and Frank was in the vilest mud slough ever 
contained. One hip had made a dent in oozey slime, as if some 
aeriolitic stone from bursted meteor cast, had fallen where fields were 
plowed. 

Poor Frank first breathed a prayer to make it right with God, 
if he the end of life had found. Then looking up he saw impending 
o'er him the bicycle, one wheel fast in a treacherous crack the bridge 
contained, and hanging out over him in threatening attitude. 

And succor came. The sage of Pease Hill was on his way to Yates 
to see if Blaine did hold his own, and found young Thomson. He 
took him from the slough, the mud was scraped away, the bicycle 
secured, and Thomson journeyed on, resolving in his mind what mis- 
haps rare o'ertake us in this world. 

Two Ways of Studying Astronomy 

Last Sunday we listened to a minister telling from the pulpit that 
the night before he had "looked up to the beautiful blue concave of 
heaven, and noted the constellations, and the planets, and thought that 
while in heaven all Christians will be in a beautiful place, yet they will 
not all be alike, but that they will differ from each other 'even as one 
star differeth from another star in glory.' " He no doubt went out 
from a comfortable home, and gazed up at those stars in .order to get 
inspiration for a sermon that he was to preach from a comfortable 
pulpit, to a sleek, well fed and well dressed congregation, who were 
expected to pay him for entertaining them for an hour. And it was 
no doubt all true, and perfectly right, for we would not see one church 
the less, but rather many more. But as we listened, a fancy came to us 



454 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

— it may have been but the suggestion of the Evil One, or it may have 
emanated from an entirely different source — to contrast this way of 
studying astronomy with that given us in that touehingly beautiful 
poem written by Phila A, Case, and the title of which is "Nobody's 
Child." After describing the poor little homeless girl, with torn, 
ragged dress, and cold bare feet, wandering in the pitiless streets of a 
great city, and looking into homes of heat, and warmth, and light, and 
love — herself a bit of wreckage on the illimitable ocean of life — no 
father, mother, brother, sister, or other friend on earth, a poor little 
despised, shunned, rejected beggar whom even the dogs refused to 
fellowship, the author puts these words into the hunger pinched 
mouth : 

Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes when I lie 

Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, 

Watching for hours some large bright star, 

I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar. 

And a host of white-robed, nameless things, 

Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings; 

A hand that is strangely soft and fair 

Caresses gently my tangled hair. 

And a voice like the carol of some wild bird, 

The sweetest voice that ever was heard — 

Calls me many a dear pet name 

Till my heart and spirit are all aflame; 

And tells me of such unbounded love. 
And bids me come up to this home above, 
And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise, 
They look at me with their sweet blue eyes. 
And it seems to me out of the dreary night, 
I am going up to the world of light. 
And away from the hunger and storm so wild — 
I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. 

These two both looked up at the same cerulean concave, studded 
with stars, and planets, and clusters, and constallations, gemmed by 
a hand Divine, but viewed from totally different stand points, the one 
gets from the scene an inspiration, the other a gleam of hope to 
penetrate the gloom that hedges in a cheerless life. 

Frank D. Thomson 

Frank D. Thomson, who, for the past fourteen years, has been 
Principal of the Galesburg schools, has given up that position to accept 
a similar one in Springfield, the capital of the state. Mr. Thomson 
is a product of Yates City, was educated in her schools, and went out 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 455 

from here after being Principal here for some time, simply because 
his capabilities were intended for a wider field than was afforded here. 
It is doubtful if there is a more capable, or a wider known educator 
in the state today. He has a combination of all those characteristics 
that mark the successful man in the educational field. He not only 
knows things, but he has the faculty of making others know them. 
He has the genius for leading young people and arousing them to do 
the best work they are capable of doing. He is honest in his dealings 
with patrons and pupils. He is a noted example of Illinois manhood. 
He is an earnest Christian man, broad minded and far seeing, is honor- 
able, moral and always a worker. Lacking even the semblance of an 
aristocrat, he is a mixer among people who are intellectual and learned, 
is a type of the very best citizenship of America, and commands the 
respect of all. He has never outgrown his love for the little town 
where happy boyhood days were passed, where character was formed, 
where by toil and care and diligence, he won his way up the steep, 
and planted his feet where he could look out over that wider field in 
which he is now such a prominent worker. Nor has Yates City for- 
gotten the manly boy, the noble youth, the successful man whose 
achievements reflect so much honor upon her. 

Fine Solo 

Miss Emma McKeighan, daughter of James and Elizabeth Mc- 
Keighan, executed a solo on the occasion of the festivities at the Pres- 
byterian church on Christmas eve that won the admiration and elicited 
the encomiums of all present. The best musical critics in the city 
were loudest in their praise and warmest in their commendations. 

Miss McKeighan has a clear, strong, musical voice which she is 
cultivating with a commendable degree of care, and her solo on this 
occasion was by far her most successful effort thus far. She has 
abundance of talent, a well cultivated ear, and above all she has 
learned to do what so few can accomplish, that is to create a tone. 
She is free from that affection which detracts so much from the true 
merit of many singers, and she pours a simple, soul-stirring pathos into 
her song that can be given only by those who know, feel and appreciate 
the divine melody and power of real music. 

We know that we but voice the sentiment of all who had the 
pleasure of hearing Miss McKeighan, when we say that no finer piece 
of music was ever rendered by home talent in Yates City than her 
solo on Friday evening. 

A Fine Church Service 

The editor and Mrs. McKeighan are indebted to the thoughtful 
kindness of Mrs. A. A. McKeighan, of Maywood, 111., who is visiting 



456 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

her parents, John and Mrs. Cullings of Elmwood, for the pleasure of 
hearing Rev. B. Y. George deliver an able and interesting lecture on 
the occasion of the centennial of the poet Tennyson, who was born 
August 6, 1809. When Mrs. McKeighan learned that Rev. George 
was to preach a special sermon about the poet Tennyson, for whom 
she knew we had a predilection, she drove over after us, and thus we 
had the privilege of hearing the finest eulogy on one of the greatest 
of the poets that we have ever listened to, and we doubt if we will 
ever hear a better one. Rev. George is thoroughly competent authority 
on English literature and is especially conversant with its poetry, and 
it was the touch of the master's hand that pictured the life and the 
poetry of this eminently great writer. That sermon was full of knowl- 
edge, wisdom and pathos, and many of the touching descriptions un- 
locked the sacred fountain of tears, and tell-tale moisture dimmed the 
vision of half that entranced and rapt congregation. It is very seldom 
indeed that we enjoy an hour as we did this one, in which we listened 
to one of the great and gifted men of the present talk of one of the 
great and gifted writers of the past. 

The size of the congregation would indicate that all the good 
people of Elmwood do not appreciate the ability of the pastor of their 
Presbyterian church, and as we were being so delighted in listening, 
we could but regret that the speaker was talking over some rows of 
empty chairs. 

But those present were appreciative, and the cordiality of the 
greeting they gave us at the close of the service was certainly ap- 
preciated. 

W. S. Bliss 

W. S. Bliss of Laporte, Ind., arrived here Wednesday morning of 
last week, making the trip in order to be present at the golden wed- 
ding of A. H. and Mrs. McKeighan. We cannot express how much 
we appreciate his coming, nor the pleasure his presence gave us. Such 
friends are worth having, and are well worth every effort to retain. 
We believe he fully enjoyed the occasion, and also the visit with his 
mother and his brother and sisters here. We will not say that this 
action on his part enhanced our good opinion of him, for years ago 
we learned to respect him for his many noble qualities of head and 
heart, and our opinion of him has been considerably above the 100 
mark. 

Birthday Surprise 

R. B. Corbin, or as he is familiarly called, "Dick," is the largest 
hearted man in Yates City. It does Uncle Dick more good to give some 
one something, or make some person a present than though he had 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 457 

cleared a cool thousand for himself. Everybody knows this who knows 
him. This week he discovered that Wednesday would be the 61st 
birthday of Aunt Lavina Marchant. Aunt Lavina is pure gold. She 
has the care of a blind husband, whose mental powers are somewhat 
shattered, and who is deaf; she has a charge that but few realize the 
dimensions of and she does it well and washes for a living. Dick 
started out among the business men and raised a sum of money; he 
bought her a nice glass set, pitcher, spoon holder, cream pitcher, sugar 
bowl, butter dish, set goblets, and a half bushel of apples, and had 
$3.10 in cash left. Dick then invited a body guard to go with him. 
Mrs. North was the oldest, Mrs. A. Kerns, Mrs. A. B. Taylor, Mrs. E. 
Rogers, Mrs. D. Corbin, Mrs. A. J. Jacobs, Mrs. W. B. Robinson, Mrs. B. 
Bevans, Mrs. J. Atkinson, Mrs. W. H. Nash, Mrs. Arrowsmith, Mrs. 
Dr. J. W. Hensley, Mrs. A. H. McKeighan, and Miss M. A. Corbin. 
To keep these ladies in proper decorum went Uncle Dick, A. J. Jacobs, 
and A. H. McKeighan. Never was surprise more complete ; it was fun 
to see Aunt Lavina as this crowd filed in; but she was equal to the 
occasion; she made a warm fire, furnished chairs for all, and made 
every one welcome. The presents were presented, and she was made 
as happy as any woman in town. To represent the young element, 
Jesse and Gracie Bevans, Archie Atkinson and Freddie Jacobs made 
part of the merry company. No one can ever blot out that glorious 
declaration of the Bible, "It is more blessed to give than to receive." 

A Triple Birthday Celebrated 

Thursday, May 13, 1909, witnessed a very peculiar and remarkable 
birthday celebration at the beautiful home of A. E. and Mrs. Mont- 
gomery, at what is known as Blue Sky, a short distance north of 
Douglas. That day was the 74th birthday of Mr. A. E. Montgomery, 
the 64th birthday of his wife, Mrs. Clara Montgomery, and the 33rd 
birthday of their second son, Mr. George Montgomery. 

It was a surprise, the ladies bringing the finest kind of a dinner 
with them, which was served on improvised tables among the trees in 
the front yard, and around which were seated forty-three relatives and 
friends, outside of their own family, among the guests being Mr. A, K. 
Montgomery of Canton, the venerable brother of A. E. Montgomery, 
who is still hale and hearty at the age of 92 years, and whom we were 
all delighted to meet. 

A fine rocker was given to Mrs. Montgomery by her relatives, and 
a similar one was given to Mr. Montgomery by the invited guests and 
the G. A. R. Post of Yates City, of which he is a member. Also a 
shower of postal cards came to the three, numbering 150, all with con- 
gratulations and best wishes. 



468 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

A Birthday Surprise 

Wednesday was the 78th birthday of Mr. Wm. Corbin. A surprise 
was planned and it was held at the handsome farm residence of Wm. 
Goold, Mrs. Goold being his daughter. This was done in order to keep 
any extra trouble or care from Mrs. Corbin, whose health has been 
feeble for the last few months. Mr. Corbin became aware of the in- 
tended surprise before the day came. The party was one of the most 
pleasant we have ever attended. One of those sumptuous dinners that 
only the well-to-do farmers have the facilities to provide, was served 
and heartily enjoyed by all. Mr. Corbin received the hearty con- 
gratulations of those present. It was a joyous time, and yet a tinge of 
sadness crept over every heart as the thought obtruded, "Where will 
we all be in one year from today." Mr. Corbin came to Illinois in 
1836, and has thus spent over 50 years in this community. He com- 
pleted his 78th year on Wednesday, Jan. 5, 1887. He has done much 
to develop this great state, and is an honored citizen. Mr. and Mrs. 
Wm. Goold and their son William made the guests at home and at 
ease ; they have that happy faculty of entertaining company, a faculty 
that is natural to a few, and is seldom acquired, and it was largely 
due to their efforts that the time was so delightfully spent. With many 
kind wishes and many deep regrets at parting, the company took 
leave of each other, bade their generous entertainers good-bye, and 
departed to their several homes. 

Sixty-Two 

Last Thursday, May 26, 1887, was the sixty-second birthday anni- 
versary of Mrs. Wm. Corbin. Her daughters, Mrs. C. C. Arrasmith 
and Mrs. Wm. Goold, planned a surprise, and conducted it so slyly 
that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Corbin suspicioned it until the company were 
there. At 11 o'clock they gathered at the cozy residence of the worthy 
old couple, and spent as pleasant a day as one could wish for. Mr. and 
Mrs. Wm. Goold, Mr. and Mrs. R. B. Corbin, Mrs. David Corbin, Mr. 
and Mrs. Sylvester Goold and three children, Mr. Peter Bjorn, Mr. 
and Mrs. F. T. Corbin and son, Mrs. W. H. Robinson and Mr. and Mrs. 
A. H. McKeighan. The dinner, under the charge of Mrs. Arrasmith 
and Mrs. Wm. Goold, assisted by Mrs. F. T. Corbin, was elaborate, 
substantial and splendid. The day was spent in social intercourse, 
and we do not remember a more pleasant, agreeable or profitable day. 
All were glad to see the hostess able to join in the pleasures of the 
occasion. She is an excellent woman, one who has succeeded in filling 
a position that is difficult to most women in such a manner as to retain 
the love, esteem and confidence of all the members of a family a part 
of which, only, is her own. The company took much interest in looking 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 459 

over Mr. Corbin's garden, one of the finest and best kept that is to be 
found. We but speak for their large circle of friends when we say we 
hope that there yet remain many such happy events to the aged couple. 

Married 

Married, at the M. E. Parsonage in Elmwood, Wednesday evening 
at 8 o'clock. Earl B. Runyon and Miss Norma J. Pittman, Rev. Nelson 
J. Brown, pastor of the Elmwood M. E. Church, performing the cere- 
mony. 

Both these young people whose lives are thus joined together in 
the sacred bonds of matrimony are well known and highly esteemed 
in this community, and when we say that they are among our very 
best young people, it is not a meaningless platitude, but is the state- 
ment of a truth that is known to all, and one that everybody endorses. 
We have known both of them since they were children, and we are not 
mistaken in the character and worth of either, and we take pleasure 
in giving expression to the hearty and sincere congratulations of the 
editor of this paper and his family, and we join in wishing them the 
greatest possible happiness and the largest attainable success in life. 

The bride is the second daughter of Mrs. Alice Pittman, residing 
northeast of the city, and is educated, accomplished and charming, and 
the groom is the only son of Frank J. and Mrs. Runyon, residing just 
east of the city limits, is well educated, is a thorough farmer, progres- 
sive, moral, of good habits, industrious and honest. 

It is the intention of these young people to look up a location in 
the west — probably in Nebraska — where they will begin their married 
life on a farm. 

James Dunn 

James Dunn of Pontiac, 111., was in the city Monday forenoon and 
made a most welcome call at the home of editor and Mrs. McKeighan. 
It has been over 40 years since Mr. Dunn left the old Middle Grove 
neighborhood to locate at Pontiac, and this is the first time we have 
had the pleasure of meeting him in all these years, so it may be easily 
understood that we had an enjoyable time while he was here. We 
take a peculiar pleasure in meeting these old time neighbors and pupils, 
and Mr. Dunn was both. It seems just a little hard for us to realize 
that James is a grandfather, and yet he tells us that he has five grand- 
children. He came to Farmington Saturday to visit his father — now 
past 92 years — who was sick, and he made the stop here in order to 
see us. Wasn't that thoughtful in our dear old friend? 



460 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Why Is It? 

A married couple who have not long been residents of the city, 
attended church last Sunday evening and Tuesday the man met the 
editor and asked him if all the women in Yates City are widows. He 
said that he thought most of them must be, as only two other men 
besides himself were at the church that evening with their wife. It 
does seem as if a fine new church, comfortable pews, steam heat, and a 
pipe organ ought to have called out more than three married men. 
This gentleman did not say whether the charms of the young ladies 
had a more potent effect on the young men, causing them to be in a 
more worshipful spirit, but we have noticed that some young men just 
love to have the privilege of attending church until — they are married. 

Eighty-Fifth Birthday 

Sunday, Jan. 21, 1887, was the eighty-fifth anniversary of the 
birth of Mrs. Irene Eagen. Some thirty of her relatives and friends 
gathered at residence of her daughter, Mrs. A. B. Taylor, in this city, 
and spent a pleasant day, partook of an excellent dinner, and had a 
splendid time, marred only by the fact that the aged recipient of the 
honors of the occasion was suffering from the effects of a fall, on 
Christmas eve, in which one of her arms was broken in two places, 
above and below the elbow. Among those present were her son, Wm. 
Eagan, of Kansas ; her daughter, Mrs. Sherman ; Anson Geer, wife and 
daughter; Delbert Taylor and family, Caroline Geer, Stark Taylor, 
wife and two children, Miss Edith Reiplinger, Farmington; John 
French, Farmington; James, Fred, Frank, Maud, Lew, Rena, Lona 
and Lottie Blakslee ; Frank Stanton, Trivoli ; Ed. Taylor, Farmington ; 
Valeria Sherman, Wilber Taylor, Kansas. Wm. Eagan presented her a 
new dress and a pair of shoes ; Valeria Sherman a lace cape ; Mrs, 
Harry Taylor a cap. Mrs. Eagan is enjoying a well preserved old age, 
rich in good deeds well done, happy in the love of her relatives, and 
rich in the esteem of all her neighbors. 

That Conver Baby 

Last Saturday morning, about the time the 3 o 'clock train arrives, 
a young lady came to the Banner Hotel. She is rather below the 
medium size, has golden hair, keen blue eyes, a well shaped nose, 
small hands — indicating the lady — small ears, slender waist, and feet 
that, for size, would satisfy a society belle. She did not appear to be 
"stuck up" or "tony dressed;" in fact, she did not wear any bustle 
at all. From her actions it is supposed she is a stranger in this part 
of the country, and it was learned that she had never been in Yates 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 461 

City before. As she seemed to be of unblemished character, and not 
given to gossiping, Mr, S. I. Conver, the proprietor, consulted his wife, 
and they concluded to board her for a period of eighteen years. The 
only trouble about her board is that she insists on a milk diet ; but as 
she seems willing to do her own milking, Sam says that he won't kick 
about that. She forgot to bring her teeth along, but she has promised 
to send for them as soon as possible. As she refused to register her 
name, Sam and Mary call her Nora Elizabeth. She is the smallest, 
best looking and most amiable young lady now boarding at any hotel 
in this city, her weight being only 6 pounds gross — that is with all her 
togging on. On Monday we called and paid our respects to the hand- 
some little lady ; she signified to us that if she boarded there as long as 
they wanted her to, Mr. Conver would have to take the Banner, as she 
considered it the best paper in the city. 

A Mistake Corrected 

When Rev. S. A. Teague was giving a ten minutes' sermon to the 
children in the Presbyterian church last Sunday morning, he was 
illustrating with a story about an eagle. He asked all the little boy§ 
who has seen an eagle to hold up their hands. Squire J. A. Hensley 
was the first one to get his hand elevated. Now, in the first place the 
Squire was by no means the smallest boy present. In the second place 
— while we think the Squire was sincere, and really thought that he 
had seen the eagle — we happen to know that the bird the squire took for 
an eagle was just an ordinary buzzard. Now the Squire is a good 
man, and we have a genuine respect for him, but as an orinthologist we 
have no faith in him. We have been told that at one time he held 
to the opinion that the horned owl should be classified with Durham 
cattle. But the Squire is not the only great man who has made mis- 
takes. It occurs to us now that Oliver Goldsmith, an author whom we 
admire, when he wrote his Natural History, gravely stated "That the 
cow, like the deer, shed her horns annually." Part of the edition 
was printed that way, but Dr. Johnson discovered the blunder and 
had the statement corrected, and the books already off the press 
destroyed. So it is small wonder that the Squire mistook a buzzard 
for an eagle. Next Sunday we are going to sit in the pew with the 
Squire and like Aaron and Hur held up the hand of Joshua, so will 
we hold up the Squire's hand at the psychological moment. 

Married 

Joseph Cecil of Yates City and Miss Edna Ennis of Elmwood were 
married in Peoria Tuesday, Sept. 12, 1911. The groom is a member 
of the Yates City Hardware Co., and is one of the active and energetic 



462 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

young men of this city, while the bride is the daughter of J. A. and 
Mrs. Ennis, who were former residents on a farm northeast of Yates 
City. They will begin housekeeping in the Maxwell house on North 
Union street, where they will be at home to their friends. 

These young people are both held in high esteem in this com- 
munity and are receiving the hearty congratulations of all, and the 
Banner joins in wishing them long life and success. 

Montgomery- Smith 

Seldom has two more worthy nor prominent young people of their 
respective communities been more honored than were Mr. George E. 
Montgomery of Douglas, 111., and Miss Edna M. Smith of Bradford^ 
111., when on Tuesday evening, September 14, 1911, at Lewistown, 111., 
they were united in holy wedlock. 

The groom is well and favorably known in church, social and 
business circles as a splendid type of Christian manhood, being an 
active elder and worker in the Presbyterian Yates City Church. He 
is also active in Sunday School work, having been the efficient super- 
intendent of the Douglas and Elba M. E. Sunday Schools for nearly 
three years. He is fortunate in securing such a queenly woman to 
preside over his home. 

The bride is a sensible, talented and accomplished young woman 
from Bradford's best families, that knows how to make a home of real 
value. She is now recording steward, president of the Epworth League 
and a teacher in the Sabbath School of the Boyd's Grove M. E. Church, 
each of Bradford, 111. 

The bride wore a Jap silk dress trimmed in white applique. The 
groom wore the conventional black. They were unattended. The 
wedding march was played by Paul Dunlevy. After congratulations, 
the guests sat down to a three-course supper given to the bride and 
groom by Rev. and Mrs. Dunlevy of Lewistown, 111., who are friends 
of the contracting parties. 

Rev. G. E. Alford of Cisina Park, 111., a former pastor of the 
bride, spoke the magic words. They will be at home to their many 
friends after March 14, 1911, at the groom's home north of Douglas, 
111. They enter upon their new career amid the congratulations of 
their many friends. 

Married 

At the residence of the bride's parents, on North Burson street, 
Yates City, on Tuesday afternoon, Jan. 11, 1887, by Rev. J. L. Hen- 
ning, Mr. Harry T. Dobbins, of Lincoln, Neb., to Miss Mary Highlands, 
daughter of Mr. and Mrs. S. A. Highlands. The young couple took 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 463 

the 6 o'clock train the same evening for Lincoln, Neb., where the 
groom is engaged in the newspaper business, and where they will at 
once enter on the active duties of life. It is thus that the Yates City 
girl goeth west, and gathereth into the drag net of her affections the 
noblest and best, not sparing even the innocent newspaper man. 

A Birthday 

The editor of this great Moral Pendulum passed his 75th mile- 
stone in his life journey last Sunday, August 13, 1911. 

He was born in the wilds of New Jersey, August 13, 1836, of poor 
but — strange as it may seem to the most of our discriminating readers 
— respectable parents. We received 18 postal cards, which showed the 
immense popularity we have attained with a people we have lived 
among for 32 years, loving them as a toper does his bottle, a smoker 
his pipe, a pig a mud-hole, or a lean hotel bed bug a fat traveling man. 
A people for whom we have labored, suffered and lied consistently 
during all that time. Part of these cards came from neighboring 
states, where the facilities for knowing our real character were far 
more limited than they were here. We thank those who have long 
know us, and yet were generous enough to forget our faults, and send 
us such beautiful cards and such lovely compliments. We thank those 
who from distance states sent us the evidences of such confidence and 
esteem for one, whom we realize, will never be able to make good in 
a tithe of what they have so nicely said of us. 

Seventy-five years do not seem so very long to us. We realize 
that they must have seemed much longer to our enemies, who out of 
respect to their own private opinions, have refrained from wishing us 
even another "return of the day." If we have our own way we will 
probably be here another 75 years. Don't be bowed in grief, it is pos- 
sible that the old gent who carries the scythe over his shoulder, will 
curb us in our wild career. But this is a card of thanks, and so we 
thank you, all our dear friends, card or cardless. And we thank our 
enemies. They have done noble work for us. Without them, what 
would we ever have amounted to? 

If we are spared another year, or ten, may they be marked by 
gentler ways, by kindlier deeds, with more of tolerance, and if we 
linger not so long, may it not be that some may come, and standing 
by the narrow house in which we dwell, may say, "He had a kindly 
heart, he did some work to make glad a sorrowing soul, he hated wrong, 
he loved the right, his memory craves a tear." 

Did Pine Timber Grow^ in Knox County? 

A great many people would answer this query in the negative. 
But we think that we can prove that pine timber did grow in Truro 



464 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Township, and not only that, but that in the year 1839 saw logs were 
actually cut and sawed from the pine trees, as many as four logs 
being taken from one tree, and 40-foot barn sills, one foot square 
were sawed from them. 

Our attention was first directed to this subject, by learning that 
a bet of $5 had been made between D. B. Coykendall and John Norris, 
in regard to the matter. Norris bet $5 that no pine timber ever grew 
naturally in Knox County; while Coykendall bet $5 that it did so 
grow, and further that it was cut into saw logs and sawed into tim- 
ber. 

The parties agreed to leave it to Isaac Lambert, an old settler 
of almost 50 years. Mr. Lambert says that nearly 40 acres were 
covered with pine, that he did cut as many as four saw logs from one 
tree and that it was sawed into lumber at John Whitter's mill, sit- 
uated at the old Knoxville and Peoria crossing. 

Besides Mr. Lambert the following witnesses can be produced 
that know of it from their own knowledge: D. B. Coykendall, when 
a boy helped to saw some of the logs. Pet Thomson helped to saw 
some. B. B. Shaffer and F. T. Westfall kncAv of it. J. A. Irving 
built fence on the Lambert farm with pine rails; some of which are 
on the farm. If anyone wishes to test the matter, they do so by call- 
ing on Wm. Whitten, near Brimfiled, whose father then owned the 
mill, and whose old books are in William's possessions. 

This pine grew on the west side of Spoon River, near what is 
known as Trenton, and was formerly Pine Bluff. Of course the timber 
was soon used up and many people never knew of it, while others 
have forgotten it. The ICnox County History makes no mention of 
it, and we are glad to rescue such an interesting item from the 
obscurity of the past so that it can go down to posterity as part of 
our County History. 

On July 4th, Mr. Norris told the holder of the stakes to deliver 
the money to Mr. Coykendall as he was satisfied that he had won 
the bet ; and the money was handed over. 

Married 

A letter received from our friend, Paul Schoenberger, informs us 
that his sister Minnie was married to Jack Renter, February 6, 1911. 
We send hearty congratulations as do all of the many friends of Miss 
Minnie, who spent so many of her childhood days here, and whose 
girlhood days were so full of pleasure, and who was missed here 
when she went to the far west. 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 465 

A Christmas Present 

In Fairmount, Tenn., on Walden's Ridge, is the summer home of 
Mrs. A. P. Smith and her two daughters. They are fine types of the 
intelligent Southerners, well informed, kind, generous, social and hos- 
pitable. Part of the year they reside in Chattanooga, and there they 
became acquainted with Albert A. and Mrs. McKeighan, and the two 
families became quite intimate. Mrs. Smith is a widow, and after the 
death of her husband she became sad, sorrowful, listless and grieved 
over her loss, never regaining her former cheerfulness until she became 
devotedly attached to Victor Cornell, the second son of Albert A. and 
Aura McKeighan, a mere child, but who seemed to divert her mind 
from her sorrow, and turned her thoughts into new channels. 

The Smiths heard from Mrs. Albert A. McKeighan, of Albert's aged 
mother, in her far Northern home, and they planned to send her a 
Christmas present, and one of the daughters made a handbag, wrought 
in the genuine Irish Crochet stitch, requiring sixty-three hours to com- 
plete it. It is not only a very beautiful piece of work, but it is a 
valuable present, and coming — as it does — from those she does not have 
the privilege of knowing, Mrs. A. H. McKeighan prizes it beyond any 
expression of words, and it has added a joy to her Christmas pleasure 
that nothing else could give, and her wish is that those who so lovingly 
remembered her may have the merriest Christmas and the happiest 
New Year of their lives, and may He whose advent woke the echoes of 
Judea's hills with the glad angel songs, doubly reward them for this 
deed of love. 

But the beautiful present was not the only gift they sent to her. 
With it she received this exquisite gem of a letter, whose noble senti- 
ments, expressions of love and words of praise for her dear son and 
family have awakened emotions in the mother heart on earth to with 
her enter heaven. No mother heart could fail to respond in loving de- 
votion to the expressions of such a rare gem as this letter is. 

In order that all her dear, good friends may understand how much 
she is indebted to these dear Southern friends she places before them 
the letter, that all who read it may realize the generous, loving spirits 
of these gifted Southern ladies : 

Mother McKeighan: — 

Our family were taking Thanksgiving dinner with Mr. 
and Mrs. A. A. McKeighan, and we gave Mr. Mc. a "Xmas" 
present for you, his mother. He wished me to send my card, 
or to present the gift. For a few short years it has been our 
privilege to know your son and his beloved family, in genial 
friendship. They have contributed abundantly in making life 
pleasant for us, and unselfishly allowing us the unalloyed 



466 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

love of their three beautiful children. We are justly proud 
to have known a father so thoughtful and unselfish, a husband 
so true, a man of business with unlimited ability. To the 
mother of such a man we are sending a small "Xmas" token, 
just to say her boy is with friends. 

Wishing you a joyous "Xmas," 

Mrs. A. P. Smith and Daughters. 

Wanted Statement 

Some days ago we got a postal card from a subscriber asking for 
a statement of his account. We turned to the book and finding that 
he owed us $1.15, we sent him the statement. By return mail we 
got a letter stating that he did not have the money to spare just 
now, and that we had better stop his paper pretty soon. Before we 
got his letter last week's paper was mailed, but we promptly crossed 
his name off the list. Monday we got an official notice that our paper 
addressed to this subscriber was refused. It is evident that he 
thought that we wished to force our paper on him, but he is mistaken, 
"We always stop the paper promptly when notified to do so. It always 
affords us pleasure to get a person out of misery. We are aware 
that taking the Banner must be a terrible infliction to some, much I 
like having the colic or being jilted by a pretty schoolma'am, or being 
visited by one's mother-in-law, or running a nail in one's off hind 
foot, and we sympathize with all of them. The fact is that we send 
them the paper just as we poison potato bugs, kill rats and cut the 
heads off of chickens, not because we take pleasure in it, but because 
it is absolutely necessary, and we have no desire to continue the 
punishment after the victim squeals. In the meantime permit us to 
call attention to the fact that we print sale bills to beat anything. 

Card of Thanks 

It is with much pleasure that I return my grateful thanks to all 
the many dear friends whose shower of birthday cards brought to me 
so many, many, almost one hundred, loving greetings and kind good 
wishes on my 72d birthday. I do appreciate every one of them, from 
that of Ellen Goold with her name written with her own little hand, 
to that of dear, good, Sarah Enochs, now 93 years of age. 

Mrs. A. H. McKeighan, 

Accidentally Shot 

Sunday afternoon, January 17, 1909, while Mrs. Fred Beale was re- 
turning from the home of her brother, Frank Smith of Elba, accom- 
panied by her brother, Ray Smith, and when south of Mrs. Bailey's 
house, Mrs. Beale was struck by a bullet, which hit her on a finger of 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 467 

her right hand, ploughed along the bone, and then went through the 
overcoat and under coat of her brother. It was a narrow escape for 
Mrs. Beale, for if the bullet had struck her body in all probability- 
she would have been killed. The shot is alleged to have been fired 
from a gun in the hands of Steve Doubet, who was chasing a wolf, 
at which he fired the shot. He was a long distance off, but the gun 
is a long range rifle, and carries a ball a long ways. The accident 
occurred between four and five o'clock P. M., and Dr. H. J. Hensley 
was called to dress the wounded finger. Mrs. Beale is the daughter 
of Alfred Smith of Elba, and she is to be congratulated on her escape 
from a more serious injury. 

Only a Dog 

Just a dog. A yellow dog of the feist variety. The property of 
A. J. and Mrs. Lawrence. He is dead. 

The end came during the night of September 1st, 1908. The 
morning of September 2nd, he was found in the wicker basket that was 
his bed, cold, stiff, stark and helpless. He had been mopy for several 
days. Time had laid its heavy hand upon him, for as a dog's life 
goes, he was old. He was nearly as old as the family in which he had 
his home. He had wiggled himself into the good graces of the entire 
family as well as the good graces of all the immediate neighbors. He 
was neither a sneak nor a hypocrite. When he visited the neighbors 
he always wanted a piece of meat, and he asked for it — in his dog 
language — a language that all recognized — and honored — if they had 
the meat. He will be missed at Macklin's, at Smith's at Corbin's, at 
the editor's home, and others. 

It can be said of him that no harm was in him. We think there 
have been more useful dogs, for his was negative goodness, but it 
did not take a microscope to make it apparent. He filled his allotted 
place, and did it well. 

His name was Dewey, and he lived up to the name, for he did 
his duty, and that only made the name he bore illustrious. 

His owner placed the dead Dewey in a box, and buried him, and 
not without regrets. And the neighbors will miss Dewey. Will we 
be missed when we die? 

John W. Smith 

John W. Smith is our neighbor, and a good neighbor too — all our 
neighbors are good neighbors — and we have dwelt in amity up to the 
present, but John is acting queerly of late. We are a long suffering 
cuss — we have been married almost 53 years — but there is a point 
beyond which forbearance ceases to be a virtue. For instance — John 



468 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

and I both had fine Burbank plum trees; our tree is dead as Julius 
Caesar, while John's tree is bending under a wealth of fruitage that 
would bulge the eyes of a wooden Indian; we each had on our home 
lots a strawberry patch ; our patch is bare as the desert of Sahara, and 
is as devoid of berries as the head of a full fledged Presbyterian Rul- 
ing Elder is of hair, while John's patch is so full of great red berries 
that an ant committed suicide because it could not get through 
between the berries ; he has lettuce with leaves broad as the pendulous 
ears of elephants ; radishes tender and crisp ; cherry trees blushing 
as the cheeks of a sweet girl graduate. John raised the largest pump- 
kin we have ever seen. Envy large as a woodchuck is lodged in our 
gizzard; discontent is gnawing at our "innards" like a wood worm in 
a hickory billet. The situation is critical. Let us hope that when 
stern Winter touches vegetation with his icy finger, and all nature 
slumbers dormant as the dead, when the moonbeams slant a world 
shrouded in virgin white, covering the hideous blots on nature's face, 
may the white dove of peace hover this heart, and Smith and we still 
amicably meet. 

A Delightful Visit 

Last Saturday evening Editor and Mrs. McKeighan went to 
Knoxville, to visit their old time friends and neighbors, B. N, and 
Mrs. Chapin. On our arrival at the depot at Knoxville, we were met 
by Mr. and Mrs. Chapin, who had a surrey in readiness, and they 
took us to the home of Crutz Sanders, one of our neighbors when we 
lived near F'airview, but who for 26 years has had charge of the 
buildings and grounds at St. Mary's Academy, and who has made 
for himself a reputation as a careful manager, that is a very great 
credit to him. At the time of our call he was absent, but learning 
of our being in town, he came to the Chapin home after supper, and 
remained a couple of hours, which we enjoyed very much. 

From the Sanders' home they took us to view the buildings and 
grounds at St. Mary's Academy, and then out to the Knox County 
Alms House, and then back through the city to Gilbert's Park, and 
after viewing the town in this pleasant way, we were taken to their 
pleasant home, where we received such a cordial welcome, and were 
so royally treated that we regretted that our stay was limited to 
Sunday evening. 

We were particularly interested in the genealogy of the Chapin 
and Culver families, which they have very complete, dating back to 
the Puritans, and with the comforting knowledge that not a member 
has ever been charged as a criminal. It certainly is a remarkable and 
honorable history. Then there was a trip of our friends to California, 
where they spent the Winter a year ago, with all the souvenirs and 



M I S C E LLANEOUS WRITINGS 469 

curios to see and admire, and the things presented to them at their 
golden wedding, which was celebrated the 22nd of September, last 
year. 

Sunday we attended the church of which Mr. and Mrs, Chapin 
are worthy members, the Presbyterian, and heard a very fine sermon 
from the pastor, Rev. A. R. Mathews, whom we have known for years, 
and whom everybody loves. 

The table prepared by Mrs. Chapin was just fine, but it was no 
surprise to us, as we have long known her reputation as a planner 
and preparer of appetizing and tempting meals. The ice cream and 
cake that closed that remarkably short Sunday were simply delicious, 
the cream being from the restaurant of their son-in-law, Mr. McClure. 

It was, to us, as delightful a visit as anyone can expect to enjoy 
in this world, and as we bade these dear friends goodbye at the depot, 
the thought came to us so forcibly: 

"The old friends are the dearest, 
After all, after all." 

Card of Thanks 

Last week when we returned home from Chicago, we found nine 
more birthday post cards. Three of them were from the Hunter 
family, who were all formerly of Farmington, one from Arthur Hun- 
ter, of Chariton, Iowa ; one from Celia Hunter Robertson, of Farming- 
ton, and one from Lizzie B. Hunter. We prize these highly because 
they are from former pupils, who came to school when we were teach- 
ing, and one card shows the Carnegie Library at Farmington, and 
Celia sent us that dearly loved old building, the Presbyterian Church 
at Farmington. Then there were two beautiful booklets from our 
loved cousins, Janie and Mary Torrens, and such a beauty of a card 
from our esteemed friends, B. E. and Mrs. Barrows, one from our 
friends, J. W. and Mrs. Maxwell, one from our valued friend, Mrs. 
Dora Hoxworth of Galesburg, and one from out thoughtful friend, 
Mrs. S. A, Teague. Then the next day came one from a loved brother 
and sister, Geo. R. and Mrs. Brown of Grand Junction, Iowa. Tues- 
day morning we received a card from Mattie, Rosa and Mary Wal- 
lace, of Farmington, expressing kindliest regards and best wishes for 
many returns of the day, and signed, "Your friends and old pupils, 
Mattie, Rosie and Mary Wallace." What a flood of memories this 
card brings up before us! It would be a great pleasure could we call 
on each of these friends, clasp hands with each and express our heart- 
felt thanks, but as that cannot be, we take this method to thank you 
all, along with the other loved ones whose congratulations came 
earlier. May the Heavenly Father have rich blessing in store for 
every one of you. A. H. McKeighan. 



470 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Fourscore and Three 

Monday, May 11, 1908, was the eighty-third birthday of our valued 
old friend, Newell Livermore. We say, our old friend, but so far as 
we can see, he is the valued friend of all who know him. His friends 
are numerous, and this was very vividly brought to his mind Monday, 
when so many of them called during the day to congratulate him, 
express their kindly regards and wish him many happy returns of 
his natal day. 

In the evening a company of his Masonic brethren came in and 
spent the evening with him, and greeted him with such cordial con- 
gratulations that the worthy old gentleman felt that he was "not 
alone in the world," nor yet "sad." Light refreshments were served, 
and the time passed merrily, and when the parting time came, as it 
always must, all wished him health and happiness with many, many 
such cheery greeting yet to come. 

The Banner joines sincerely in congratulations, and best wishes 
on the completion of Mr. Livermore 's 83rd year, and hopes that in 
the years to come he may retain the strength to climb the office stairs 
and greet us with his cheery "good morning." 

We admire him for his rugged honesty, his sturdy manhood, his 
advocacy of right, his loyalty to God and his example of right living. 
May the sunset of his useful life peacefully merge into the bright 
effulgence of the eternal morning. 

Married at High Noon 

At high noon, on Wednesday, March 17, 1909, at the fine home of 
the parents of the bride, on North Burson street, in Yates City, 111., 
Mr. Will Humphrey of Elmwood and Miss Sadie McKinty of Yates 
City, were united in marriage. Rev. James Wyckoif, an uncle of the 
groom, being the officiating minister. Only the families of the con- 
tracting parties were present to witness the ceremony, with the excep- 
tion of Miss Vada Griffith, a friend of the bride, who played the wed- 
ding march. 

After the ceremony and the congratulations, a very elegant wed- 
ding dinner was served, and in the evening the bride and the groom 
went to Elmwood, where they had a home already furnished, and 
began life in the new surroundings. 

Both are worthy young people, and both have many friends 
whose congratulations are hearty and sincere, and who wish for them 
a long, happy and prosperous wedded life. 

A Very Beautiful Home Wedding 

April 27, 1909, at eight o'clock P. M. at the home of the bride 
at Yates City, 111., occurred the marriage of Mr. Arthur G. Codey of 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 471 

Jacksonville, and Miss Charlotte E. Bird of Yates City, 111., in the 
presence of the immediate friends of the contracting parties, Rev. 
W. H. Clathworthy of Yates City being the officiating clergyman. 

The bride was charmingly gowned in soft light mull and carried 
a beautiful boquet of bridal roses. 

After congratulations a two course lunch was served. The bride 
and groom left Yates City Thursday morning for Meredosia, 111., 
where they will spend some time visiting friends, after which they 
will return to Jacksonville, 111., where the groom has a home furnished, 
and they will begin housekeeping. The happy couple received many 
beautiful gifts from their friends. 

Miss Bird is one of Yates City's most charming young ladies, 
and the groom is an undertaker in the city of Jacksonville, and is 
held in high esteem, and we predict for them a bright and prosperous 
future. 

Married 

At the home of the parents of the bride, in Milo, Iowa, Wednes- 
day, March 10, 1909, at the hour of 6 o'clock P. M., was solemnized 
the marriage of Clinton J. Reed, of Peoria, and Miss Maude Spencer, 
of Milo, Iowa. The bride and groom arrived in Yates City, Wednes- 
day forenoon, and went out to the home of C. M. and Mrs. Bliss, 
uncle and aunt of the groom, where a fine dinner was served to the 
immediate relatives. The young couple went to Peoria at 6 P. M. 
Thursday, where the groom has a home already furnished, and where 
they will begin housekeeping at once. 

Both the young people are well known here, the groom being the 
son of Mrs. D. M. Enochs, of this city, and the grandson of Wm. and 
Mrs. Carroll. The bride is a grand-daughter of Wm. and Mrs. Mur- 
dock of this place, and she attended school here two years ago. Both 
are worthy young people and have many friends who join in wish- 
ing them happiness and prosperity. 

Accidentally Drowned 

Last Sunday William D. Sweeney was drowned in a pond at 
Monmouth. The accident occurred at 1:30 o'clock P. M. With three 
companions he went swimming in the pond, and though a good swim- 
mer he sank, and was dead before his companions realized that he 
was in distress. The body was brought here Monday evening and 
was taken to the family home, where the funeral was held at 2 o'clock 
P. M. Wednesday, Rev. S. A. Teague, of the Presbyterian church, 
conducting the services. 

The funeral was largely attended, and the floral offerings many 
and beautiful. He leaves an aged mother — now blind — and several 



472 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 



brothers and sisters, who have the sympathy of all in this sudden 
bereavement. 

A Welcome Call 

Homer Randolph, of Canton, was a business caller in Yates City, 
last Tuesday afternoon, and made the Banner office a very welcome 
call. It made us sensible of the swift flight of the passing years, 
when we recalled the wedding of his parents, W. F. and Mrs. Ran- 
dolph, when we were teaching school, near Canton, and for four years 
was a boarder at the home of the parents of Mrs. W. F. Randolph, 
Homer and Mrs. Moore, and where we attended the wedding. No 
more estimable or worthy young couple ever plighted their troth in 
marriage, nor do we know friends that we more highly respect than 
W. F, and Mrs. Randolph. Homer Randolph may well be proud of 
his parentage. But his office call brought memories of those happy 
days when we gathered around the table, and knelt at the family altar 
with those dear friends. 

But Few Left 

There are but five of the voters left in Yates City of those who 
took part in the first election held to vote on the proposition to incor- 
porate the town. They are T. L. Long, Smith Rhea, B. Bevans, David 
Corbin and Isaac Rynearson. In fact there are only four left here 
now, David Corbin leaving here last Monday to make his home with 
his son Geo. H. Corbin, at Liberty, Nebraska. 

At this election 78 votes were cast, 39 being for incorporation 
and 39 against it. The vote being a tie, the proposition to incorporate 
was defeated. Of these 78 voters, 26 are known to be dead. This 
election was held in 1866, and Oliver McKee was president and David 
Corbin was clerk. Three years later, in 1869, another election was 
held and the town was incorporated. 

Found 

A switch — not the kind the schoolmaster used on us when we 
were a kid — but a hair switch such as ladies wear to assist in making 
them look "purty," was found on Burson street, and has been left 
at our office. In order to live peacefully with our wife, we will 
positively state that we did not find this switch — though we remem- 
ber that the schoolmaster's switch used to find us regularly every 
day, and in order that Dr. Parker may avoid internecine strife, we 
positively refuse to state that he found it. In order to avoid compli- 
cations that might arise from having it in possession we hereby insist 
that the owner call and relieve us of the responsibility that we do 
not feel — at our advanced age — we ought to be required to carry. We 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 473 



desire to state that this switch will not be delivered to any red headed 
lady — unless she can show a power of attorney to secure it for some 
very handsome brunette. "Asleep at the Switch?" Not on your 
tintype! we have not slept good since it has been in our custody. 

Courage 

Whether on the gallows high. 

Or in the battle's van. 
The fittest place for man to die 

Is where he dies for man. 

Read these lines if you are becoming faint and weary, and feel 
as if the masses were not alive to their own interests. 

It may be that we do not yet comprehend just the way in which 
we ought to work. Human sacrifices have ever been necessary to 
placate the insatiate avarice of man. The bones of martyred ones 
direct the student into the roads that lead to human progression. And 
bones are thicker strewn as we, advancing, come to the contested fields 
where man has finally resorted to the last stern argument, and has 
fallen while nobly battling for human rights. But shed no useless 
tears, as you remember that : 

Whether on the gallows high, 

Or in the battle's van. 
The fittest place for man to die 

Is where he dies for man. 

Then let your faint heart gather courage from the noble lessons 
taught by past experience. Let no lingering trace of cringing cowar- 
dice lurk in hearts that should be fired by the pathetic story that 
comes to us from the oppressed laborers of this and other lands. And 
let us, with renewed vigor, and a firm reliance on the justness of our 
cause and its final triumph, that God's eternal justice must gild with 
the glory of victory, resolve "never to give up the contest," never 
to abandon the struggle, but to say, welcome even death, in such 
a cause, for Oh ! is it not true, that : 

Whether on the gallows high. 

Or in the battle's van, 
The fittest place for man to die 

Is where he dies for man. 

That Odious Dance 

We mean the one that was held in Union Hall on the night of 
Decoration Day. It is odious to the Grand Army Post, not one mem- 
ber of which sanctions such a desecration of the day. It is odious 



474 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

to all good citizens, without regard to party, creed or profession. 
There are those who believe in dancing, and no one questions their 
right to that belief; but it is most certainly in bad taste on this day 
in which a nation meets to weep over the graves of its dead heroes, 
and to scatter the beautiful flowers of spring over the mounds where 
are hidden their honored dust. It is certainly an outrage on common 
decency to thus desecrate the day on which an entire people engage 
in funeral rites. It is a most shocking and inhuman exhibition of 
groveling avarice that some are so lost to the better instincts of a 
common humanity that they prostitute this occasion to making money,' 
the miserable pittance derived from a dance, or the rental of a hall 
in which it is held. There is only one other instance that approaches 
it in ghoulish mendacity and that is where the cowardly camp fol- 
lower went about the battle fields rifling the pockets of the slain, 
and cutting off the fingers of the dead in order to possess themselves 
of the rings that affection had placed there as the soldier bade adieu 
to home and friends forever. We envy not the one who makes a 
paltry dime in such a way; we know of no language adequate to 
express the loathing and contempt in which such vandalism should 
be held. We a»e glad that in the days gone by, before the grace of 
God come to soften and subdue our heart, no such arrant and ruth- 
less desecration of sacred sorrow called for our denunciation, for 
we fear that in that case we should have been betrayed into saying 
something harsh in regard to those guilty of it. And even now in 
the presence of such a wrong, such a burning shame, we are compelled 
to pray earnestly that God may prevent us from saying all that unre- 
generate nature prompts us to express. Let us hope that civilization 
may speedily carry us beyond such heathenish practices. 

Every Day Thoughts 

Ah, how sad and vain a thing is regret. When too late, some 
past wrong-doing will burden the memory, and the bitter truth we 
tried to veil, even from our own hearts, is revealed in all its undisguise. 
Who has not to repent some slight, thoughtless omission of duty or 
kindness toward those whom they love? What even are regrets com- 
pared with the anguish of feeling of having parted from a friend — 
perhaps from our best beloved — with unkind and cruel words? It 
may have been those words were uttered carelessly, lightly, as the 
wild and wanton breeze sweeps by, but they leave a pain, as the 
breeze leaves some scattered rose-leaves to mark its track. Or it 
may have been they were purposly spoken, prompted by pride and 
passion and imagined wrong. Such has been an episode in many a 
life. The cause we know not, any more than that of the little frag- 
ment from which I quote, whose actors and whose story are alike 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 475 

unknown. But what a fitting place and time was that for such a part- 
ing! 

By the seething main, 
While the dark wrack drives overhead. 

And one is drifting out into the mist and storm — the other left 
to mourn the embittered past, pleading from the far spirit-land for 
that forgiveness earth cannot accord. 

The Show 

Thursday was show day and the children enjoyed it immensely. 
We believe in letting the children see the show. It may grow old to 
old people, but it is all new to the kids. We can remember what a 
day it was for us when a boy we saw Barnum's great menagerie and 
circus at Farmington, with the wax figures, the baby elephant, the 
wonderful ponies, Tom Thumb and the armless man who wrote with 
his toes — and a thousand other things — to say nothing of the big 
boy who traded his old jack-knife for our new one — did all the trad- 
ing himself, and came near licking us because we kicked. Oh, that was 
a day to be remembered! And the future Mrs. Mc. was there too — 
though we didn't know it, as she was looking after Sarah Enochs — 
now Mrs. J. A. Hensley — her father, Samuel Enochs, buying Mrs. 
Me. a ticket on condition that she look after Mrs. Hensley, who was 
younger. Ah! the changes the years have brought — but — let the chil- 
dren see the show. 

Revealed Religion 

It is our opinion — deliberately arrived at, and stated without 
hesitation — that there are but few who do not believe in revealed 
religion. People may be indifferent, careless, unappreciative, while 
in the glow of health, and the flush of prosperity and comfort; but 
when something occurs to call out the better feelings of the human 
heart, something to stir its inner depths, the cloak of indifference 
falls off, the mask of carelessness is removed, the covering of unap- 
preciativeness is stripped off, and man stands forth as a believer in 
the religion of the Bible. When disappointments, when dangers, 
when sickness, when death come, most of them begin to be true to 
themselves, true to humanity, true to God, and are ready to acknowl- 
edge that there is a want in the human soul, a vacuum in the human 
heart, that nothing but the religion of revelation can satisfy. They 
are ready to own up that man's depravity, and Christ's power to 
save souls, is not only possible, but probable, and, indeed, necessary. 
It is natural to despise shelter when the sun shines; but when the 
storm rages it is just as natural to turn to some higher power for 



476 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

protection. There are but few infidels or skeptics in the time of real 
danger. 

Revivals 

We notice that an effort is being made to get up a revival in this 
place, and there can be no doubt in regard to the need of it. But 
there may be grave doubts about the good done by a "gotten" up 
revival. In our own case this doubt comes by experience and observa- 
tion. In our younger days we thought that the best plan to circum- 
vent the devil was to go at him rough shod, and that the "kingdom 
of heaven must be taken by force." In fact we were surprised that 
"auld clootie" did not go out of business after we had helped in a 
"gotten up" revival, and we have been astonished to find some of 
the most promising of the converts helping the old scamp in some of 
his nefarious work in less than six months afterwards. Ah! that 
"auld clootie" is sly, and it takes a convert in a revival God has 
gotten up to make people better. 

Special Mention 

Yates City has spent some money on her schools and her library. 
But it has not been lost. We know of no other town that has sent 
out a better class of young people. We are sorry that we do not have 
the data to give them all, but we remember Omer Barker, Frank 
Clancy, Douglas Barker and Wm. Clancy, now doing grand and suc- 
cessful work in California ; S. W. Burson, now a doctor of note, prac- 
ticing in Chicago ; Luela Burson, now married, and teaching in an 
Iowa college ; Henry Flanegin, now principal of the Roseville schools, 
in Illinois; Presson Thomson, now teaching at Summit; LeRoy E. 
Flanegin, now a Prof, in the Central Normal at Lewistown, 111. ; Robert 
E. Bird, a teacher of experience, but now attending Knox College; 
Lee Flanegin, now teaching at Williamsfield, 111. ; Robert Anderson, 
now a student at Lombard ; F. D. Thomson, now Principal of the 
Yates City schools; Miss Lydia A. Corbin, now — and for some time 
past — a teacher at Princeton, 111., Miss Inez S. Long, who taught 
several successful terms, but is now at home on account of a throat 
trouble ; Miss Lulu M. Hensley, now married and living in Peoria ; 
Miss Clyde Bevans, now teaching the Corey school; Claude Ander- 
son, now at Lombard College ; Miss Mary Stone, now married and 
living on a farm; Miss Jennie Bird, now teaching near Bennington; 
Miss Bert Hensler, now married and living in Elmwood; George H. 
Pease, now teaching at Pease Hill; Samuel Stone, now teaching 
at Salem Centre ; George Tennery, now teaching at No. 1 ; Miss 
Bessie Robinson, now married to Editor W. 0. Butler; Lizzie 
Spickard, a successful teacher; Miss Lillian Bliss, now at home; 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 477 

Miss Maggie Clancy, the valued teacher of the primary department 
of the Yates City schools ; Miss Nellie Robinson, now married and 
living on a farm; Miss Fannie Knable, now married and living 
here; Miss Annie Lund, now teaching at the Nicholson school; 
Robert D. Hill, now teaching at Rapatee, 111. ; Miss Kate Chase, now in 
Galesburg ; Miss Amy Robinson, now married and living in Galesburg ; 
Miss Nannie Beal, now teaching; John Tinen, now engaged in farm- 
ing; W. S. Bliss was for two years in the grammar department of the 
Yates City schools, now in the lumber yard here; Grace B. Hensley, 
now married and living in El Paso, Texas; Agnes Montgomery, now 
teaching at the Spickard school; Alva J. Norris, now an eminent 
physician at Russell Springs, Kas., Ada Norris, now married and liv- 
ing in Denver, Colo. 

The Garnered Sheaf 

On Saturday last, at his home in Farmington, died Luther Birge. 
He had been for upward of 50 years a resident of that town. The 
whole story is told when we say that humanity has lost a friend. 
Deacon Birge was a radical of the radicals, but he was radically right. 
He knew no compromise with wrong, and hesitated at no sacrifice 
for right. One of the original abolitionists, he was, of course perse- 
cuted for his opinions, and the brave old hero and martyr — for shall 
we not call him such — was rotten egged in more than one school 
house in Fulton county. But he had the courage of conviction, and 
by tongue, and pen, and personal acts he worked for the emancipa- 
tion of a race. As a high official on the "underground railroad," he 
has aided in the escape of many slaves from the free soil of America, 
to the juster laws of Canada. 

But Deacon Birge was not a narrow minded bigot; he was rather 
the large hearted philanthropist whose energies were active for relig- 
ion, morality, temperance, virtue, honesty and truth. Such being the 
case, it is not surprising that he commanded the respect of even his 
foes, and won and kept the admiration and love of his friends. 

He lived to rejoice for almost two decades in the freedom of an 
emanicipated people, for whose welfare he had counted no sacrifice too 
great, and no personal sufferings too severe. Death has stilled the 
pulse, and palsied the brain, and shrouded in darkness the intellect 
that once was so active for man's weal. The withered body finds 
repose, and the tired limbs are at rest. If knowledge was universal, 
four millions of former slaves would today be bowed in solemn grief, 
and their children would make pilgrimages to honor the dust of the 
true emancipator — not he who demanded it as a war necessity — but 
he who demanded it in the name of right and justice, and who, spurn- 
ing all human enactments, squared his actions and life by the teach- 
ing of a "higher law." 



478 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

The world has, in our opinion, produced no greater apostle and 
martyr of freedom than John Brown of Harper's Ferry fame; and 
Deacon Birge was a John Brown under different circumstances. Such 
men ''make our faith in goodness stronger;" and we realize that men 
now in a more exalted sphere of usefulness, these noble souls — whose 
immortality can never be for a moment doubted — are rejoicing in the 
opportunity of doing greater works for God than was theirs to do 
here on earth. 

An active participant in the affairs of men for more than 60 
years, the memory of Deacon Birge will be an incentive to duty so 
long as the simple story of his pure and honest life finds a place in 
the history of his country. 

The Library Entertainment 

The Annual Entertainment for the benefit of the Yates City 
School and Public Library, was given in the opera house, Thanks- 
giving night, and called out a very large audience of interested, 
cultured and critical people, so that the seating capacity of the build- 
ing was overtaxed, and many were turned away who sought admis- 
sion. 

From a financial point of view it was a great success, the proceeds 
being $95, the largest, we are told, since 1892, and we think this 
financial result is due to the judicious advertising, wise management 
and persistent efforts of Dr. J. J. Parker, 

The Yates City Orchestra furnished the music, and they did it 
in such a manner as to win new honors for themselves, delighted the 
audience and sent them home feeling that their 35 cents had not been 
entirely a donation. 

Then the night! Wasn't it beautiful! The air mild, balmy, salu- 
brious, intoxicating, making one take in great draughts of it, a la an 
old toper drinking from the bung of a beer barrel. Then, too, there 
was the moonlight, that lesser light that rules the night, glinting, 
and gleaming, coruscating and shimmering over the loveliest of land- 
scapes, scattering the gloom, chasing the dark shadows along the 
valleys, up the steep declivities, and driving them far away beyond 
the hills, those grand and picturesque old hills that skirt the Kicka- 
poo, and French Creek, and pouring so much of beauty, and poetry, 
and esctasy, and love over young humanity that one beautiful School- 
ma'ams of Yates City became so exuberant and exultant that she 
fished out of her dainty purse the following exquisite and suggestive 
motto that she had unwrapped from a candy kiss, thrust it into the 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 479 

hand of her escort who was paying her way into the entertainment 
and said, "read it, read it, my Honeybird!" and he read as follows: 

"Wanted, a hand to hold mine own, 

As down life's stream I glide; 
Wanted, an arm to lean upon, 
Forever by my side." 

Oh ! but that was the daisy night, and so the crowd, the finances, 
the orchestra and the night, all were fine. 

We are told that a certain counterpart of Joe Jefferson was to 
give a theatrical performance, but unfortunately he was called out 
of the city, and as even so fine an actor as Donald Root is reported 
to be, is not gifted with ubiquity, we draw the veil, and say vale, 
entertainment, vale! 

Christ's Teachings 

Yes, some may all the better see 

For pain and blight and fears; 
But, oh, so many eyes there be 

Cannot see God for tears. 

Peruse those lines again, gentle readers; they are full of mean- 
ing, a meaning that is a bitter, bitter reality to thousands of dwellers 
on the earth today. We are a boasting people; abundant crops have 
been garnered ; those who have raised, need not go hungry, and those 
who have money to buy need not lack. But even this applies only 
to our own country, a small part of God's universe. And even here 
John G. Ingalls has said ten thousand people never have the craving 
of hunger satisfied. It is well to look on the beautiful picture as a 
whole, but it is better not to forget that objects in the picture taken 
singly, are distorted and hideous; it is well to look on the silver lin- 
ing of the darkest cloud; but it is better to see that it is but a dark 
cloud that makes the lining seem all the more brilliant. It is a small 
matter to the starving peasant on the steepes of Russia, whose glazing 
eye is closing on a world that did not meet the demands of his animal 
wants, that somewhere, in a land called America, there is bread 
enough and to spare. A shudder went through us when we heard a 
minister rejoicing that while our granaries are bursting with their 
abundance, that prices are high because of the scarcity elsewhere; 
and at the same time we knew that where that scarcity existed, help- 
less, innocent babes were wailing the feeble cry for food that could 
not be given, helpless women were weeping in agony over the chil- 
dren they could no longer satisfy, and emaciated fathers were mak- 
ing a heroic, a desperate, an unavailing fight to beat back the wolf 
of hunger from the door of his miserable hut. If giving thanks for 
such conditions be any part of Christian religion, then we would say 



480 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

deliberately, but candidly, let it perish from the earth, and let it hide 
its deformities in the darkness of complete oblivion, and let us have 
a religion that acknowledges the brotherhood of man, and the uni- 
versal fatherhood of God. We do not so comprehend the grand 
teachings of Christ, in the scriptures: 

Go stand where he has stood; 

Go feel what he has felt; 
Go view where human sorrows brood, 

There let thy proud heart melt. 

God made a world. He divided it into continents, islands, oceans 
and seas. Man has made empires, kingdoms, and republics. "We doubt 
if God notices the lines that man's ambitions, revenges and vagaries 
have established. The daily dweller by the Nile, the swarthy Mon- 
golian, the copper-hued Indian, the classically intelligent features of 
the European, all are alike in the sight of Him who spake worlds 
into being, and who notices the atom as it floats in the sunbeam. If 
religion has a mission it must be to clear away doubts, and remove 
obstruction, and help frail humanity to reach up its hand and place 
it in the hand of God. 

Yes, some may all the better see 

For pain and blight and fears; 
But, oh, so many eyes there be 

Cannot see God for tears. 

The Farmer's Dinner 

Did you ever go out to the home of one of our prosperous farm- 
ers, and did he prevail on you to take dinner with the family? If 
you have had any experience you are not hard to persuade. The 
lady who presides over the farmer's house, gets on her big apron and 
her "poke" sunbonnet, seizes a missile of some kind, and gives chase 
to a couple of young chickens that her practical eye tells her are about 
right to fry. Of course when she throws the missile hits most any- 
thing but the chicken, but she just "tries, tries again" until she bags 
the game. In an incredible short space of time they are picked, 
dressed, cut up and in the oven in a dripping pan of wonderous pro- 
portions. Then there is jarring on the clean kitchen floor as the 
heavy table is wheeled into place, a snowy cloth is taken from a 
bureau drawer, the plates are laid, the napkins placed, and a won- 
drous lot of dishes, knives, spoons, etc., are ranged in order. There 
is a hurrying up and down the cellar stairs, a rattling of chairs, and 
before you think it possible, a matronly face appears at the sitting 
room door and a smooth, sweet voice says, "Pa, dinner is ready." 
In a moment you are seated. How the cutlery shines! How the 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 481 

dishes burnish. What an aroma comes from the steaming coffee-pot! 
And there are the lima beans, just too nice to describe ; there is the 
whitest and lightest of bread, flaky as it can be; there is a great 
platter with the fried chicken, brown, and crisp, and tender, fit dish 
for the epicure ; there is the dish of mashed potatoes, with a great 
roll of butter slowly melting in the cavity that has been hollowed 
out in the middle ; there is the roll of butter, pure, sweet, yellow, fresh, 
making one think of broad pastures and sleek, clover fed Jersey 
cattle; there is the "cold slaw," floating in, and covered with cream — 
not make-believe cream — but thick, rich, luscious, just taken from 
the pans of milk ; there are the fruits, and the preserves, and the 
gravy, and the sugar in bright bowls, and real cream for coffee, and 
goblets of pure, bright, sparkling water, and you look over the 
heaped up table, and realize that here is a feast fit for the gods, and 
you feel thankful that the gods are not here, and that you are. And 
you see the things passed around, and you eat until you feel like a 
stuffed toad, and you regretfully quit, and as you look over the table, 
there sits the woman apparently unconscious that she has done any- 
thing, and actually you begin to doubt if indeed she did get up that 
dinner, but you know she did, and your admiration for her rises, 
and you give her a place above all other mortals, and she has a 
charm that wealth, education nor station can give, and yet she sits 
there, a gentle, unassuming, quiet matron, clad in calico, a check 
apron, a bow of ribbon at her throat, and yet she is a queen. 

The Change of Years 

Those who were familiar with the country between Yates City 
and Canton fifty years ago, are surprised at the change these fifty 
years have wrought. Along the line of the C, B. & Q. from Farm- 
ington to Canton there is a succession of clusters of buildings centered 
around the different coal mines, that give one the impression that 
it is one continuous town. The editor of this great moral pendulum, 
when a boy in his teens, made prairie hay where the coal shaft at Two 
Town now is located, and there was not a fence or a house anywhere 
near, and when the jug of water became warm, almost nauseating, 
there was no well in reach where it might be replenished. About the 
only indications of a settlement adjacent were the flocks of cattle 
that were wont to swoop down and get among the new made hay 
cocks, and toss them to pieces with their horns. And it even took a 
hint given by the sharp tines of a pitchfork, to induce some par- 
ticularly audacious old cow to desist from what was evidently sport 
for her. Nor have we yet forgotten how slowly those long summer 
afternoons wore away, nor how the hot sun persisted in hanging over 
the same spot for so long a time, and so exasperated us with his snail- 



482 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

like motion that we were ready to believe that some modern Joshua 
had arrested his motion and was causing him to stand still while he 
took a poke at the enemy. It is just surprising how slowly the sun 
can go down when a boy is weary of work, and visions of summer 
evening come to him, when all the neighbor boys would congregate 
to play "high spy" around the hay stacks and straw shed, turn sum- 
mersaults off the straw stack, chase the elusive lightning bug, and 
indulge in very mild shouts — all boys shout mildly — and forget all 
about the weariness of the long afternoon out on the lonesome prairie 
where Two Town now is ranged in two picturesque rows. As we rode 
over the Q. on a recent afternoon, and looked out at the coal shafts 
with their immitation towns, it seemed to us that "time had turned 
backward in its flight," and that we were the careless, tired boy again, 
standing among the cocks of prairie hay, and that Two Town was 
but a dream. There came back to us too, companions, the playmates 
of those long ago days, and we found ourselves tracing them along 
the intervening years, and found that their paths led to "the silent 
city of the dead," and saw those old familiar names carved on great 
granite blocks, and as memory recalled them "one by one," a feeling 
of sadness came over us and a moisture — no doubt due to the evening 
atmosphere — gathered on the car window, and the shafts and clus- 
tered houses of Two Town seemed indistinct and obscure. Truly 
the years have wrought many changes. 

Mother's Day 

Last Sunday, May 9, 1909, was "Mother's Day." If we under- 
stand it, it is comparatively a new observance, but it is certainly 
a very beautiful and most appropriate observance. It is also an 
observance that calls out the noblest and the best traits in humanity. 

The individual whose feelings are not touched, whose heart is 
not warmed by such an observance, is most certainly to be pitied. 
A mother's love is the sweetest, the most unselfish thing that exists 
outside of heaven. 

The day was fittingly observed at the Presbyterian church, by 
a special service, and by music. The weather was not propitious, 
as it rained nearly all day Saturday, and the morning opened dark, 
gloomy and foreboding, with the roads heavy and muddy, but the 
attendance was fairly good, despite all this. 

A committee of young ladies stood at the church entrance, 
and pinned a pure white carnation upon every mother as she entered. 

The special music was a very pleasing part of the service. Not 
only did the choir rise to the occasion, but the solos were extra fine. 
The first was given by Mrs. Jay McLaughlin, and we do not remember 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 483 

when we have heard anything so finely rendered, or that was so 
tender and touchingly beautiful. It was exquisite in the manner 
of its rendition, and it touched the tenderest feeling of the congrega- 
tion, and during its progress many were silently weeping and the 
eyes that were undimmed at its close were few. There is no truer 
test of ability of the singer than the fact that she reaches the hearts 
of those who are swayed by the feeling, and the pathos and earnestness 
that she has conveyed to those who are moved by her song. 

The second solo was given by L. A. Lawrence, and it is high 
praise to say that it was fully up to his high standard. Only a few 
are privileged to retain so fine a voice, so clear a perception, so fault- 
less a rendition, at his age as does Mr. Lawrence. 

The sermon was one of the best things ever heard from that 
pulpit, and there have been fine ones before. It is characteristic of 
Rev. S. A. Teague that he speaks off hand, and while all that we have 
heard him preach have been most excellent, we thought this exceeded 
them all. It was not so grand-eloquent as to get into the region of 
fiction, and draw a fanciful picture, but was practical, dealing with 
the mothers in a manner that appealed to the personal experience of 
all, and was an appeal to the practical, every day life of this com- 
munity, and of every other community as well. The person who 
listened to it could not but have a higher conception of what we 
owe to our mothers, and a deeper sense of what we owe to the loving 
self-sacrifice of those dear mothers — many of whom are in heaven, 
watching and waiting for us, and anxious — Oh, how anxious ! that we 
lead pure, honest, upright lives, and be welcomed by them in that 
better land. 

The writer appreciates the privilege of being present at such a 
grand good service, and wishes to state that he came away with higher 
resolves for a closer adherence to duty and right living. 

Yates City Scenery 

From several view points in and about Yates City, can be 
seen some of the most beautiful scenery that Illinois affords. The 
lover of the beautiful will be well paid for the trouble, if he, or she, 
will go out to the top of the ridge just north of the residence of Sam 
and Mrs. Ramp, and spend a half hour in looking over the stretch 
of country that lies to the north and northeast within the range of 
the vision. It is a panorama that, once seen, cannot easily be for- 
gotten. 

Or let one go out on North Burson street, until the crest of the 
ridge is reached, about where the well kept homes of John Chantry, 
John McKinty, C. M. Corbin, E. C. Shaw, T. J. Kightlinger, P. Gar- 



484 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 



rison, M. W. Thomson, R. C. Mathews, and Dr. J. J. Parker are 
situated, and they will see, over to, and reaching far beyond the 
confines of French Creek, as enchanting a landscape as poet or painter 
ever dreamed of, or the eye of mortal ever rested upon. We have 
sometimes thought that these favored people who live along this 
ridge, or just beyond the slope of it on the north, and who are per- 
mitted to view such entrancing natural scenery day after day, do 
not deserve much credit for being the good people they really are, 
for the beauty they see to the north of them can but be a powerful 
incentive to high ideals, pure thoughts and noble lives. Nor is it 
great wonder that the wives and daughters of these residents should 
be beautiful, talented and witty, for beauty develops beauty, and 
people tend toward their invironments. If such scenery doesn't 
tend to bring out all that is noble, all that is good, all that is pure, 
all that is holy in men and women, then have we been mistaken in 
why God has placed such landscapes before mankind. 

Or let one get over in the southeast part of town, where the 
hills and groves of the Kickapoo, the Mound over toward Elmwood, 
the glimpses of Elmwood itself, nestled on the bank of the historical 
stream, that winds its sinuous course, hugging the southern bluffs 
until its waters are lost in the Illinois, and there is beheld a vision of 
natural scenery that must have an influence on the minds and hearts 
of those who are privileged to look upon it daily. 

Or let one get out toward the southwest part of the city, and 
look over toward Pease Hill, snuggled there in the midst of as fine 
a prairie farming country as the world produces, see the evidences 
of thrift and prosperity, behold the distant fringe of woods that mark 
the bank of Littlers Creek, and farther west, beyond Uniontown and 
Douglas, discern the dim outlines of the heavier timber skirting the 
windings of Spoon river, and how can it be possible for the beholder 
to remain gloomy, grouchy or sad, where nature has been so lavish 
in providing that which is beautiful, grand and inspiring, and placed 
it even at our very doors. 

Think of it, that line of grand old trees that the eye follows,, 
trending to the southwest, marks French Creek, in its flow to Spoon 
River ; facing southwest we see a similar marking showing where 
Littlers Creek holds its course northwest to Spoon River, whose 
water joins the Illinois at Havana, and finds its way to the gulf. 

Facing the southeast we trace the Kickapoo, in its flow to the- 
gulf, perhaps a little later than those of French Creek and Littlers 
Creek. These creeks skirt the confines of Yates City, as the Jefferson,, 
the Madison and the Gallitan Rivers skirt Boseman, the beautiful, 
in the lovely Gallitan Valley, in Montana, whose waters forming the 
Missouri, mingle with those of our own beautiful creeks, as they are- 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 486 

all borne on the bosom of the Father of Waters, and mingle together 
in their descent to the gulf. 

It may be that some day a painter able to delineate, will put this 
beautiful natural scenery on canvas that speaks in mute voice, to 
the heart of men and women. It may be that some poet will put 
this wondrous beauty and grandeur in a poem that will stir the hearts 
of those who read, and open for them these pages of beautiful pictures, 
so that they will appear as they really are. It may be that some more 
gifted writer, following him who realizes that he lacked words to 
tell of this beauty as it should be done, may touch this Yates City 
scenery with the hand of a master, and do justice to the theme. 

As for us, 

"In vain have we essayed it, 
And we feel we cannot now." 

Dr. J. A. Brown 

Died — In Farmington, of typhoid fever, after a lingering ill- 
ness of several weeks, Dr. J. A. Brown, aged 55 years. 

"How pure at heart and sound in head. 
With what divine affection bold. 
Should be the man whose thought would hold 
An hour's communion with the dead." 

Deceased was born at Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1830, and was left 
fatherless at the age of two years, after which he removed with his 
mother to Morton, Tazewell county. 111., in 1835, where he resided 
with his uncle, Robert Roberts. At the age of 16 he left the farm and 
took up his abode in Peoria, where he learned the plasterer's trade, 
and acted in the capacity of reporter for one of the daily papers. At 
about the age of 20 he went to Cincinnati, Ohio, where he was also 
engaged as a reporter, and in a little over a year after his removal 
to that city he was united in marriage to Miss Lottie "Ward, March 4th, 
1852, and immediately returned with his bride to Peoria, where he 
resided and commenced the study of medicine, with Dr. J. M. Evans. 
He graduated at Cincinnati, Ohio, and began the practice of medicine 
at Lancaster, this state, and then removed to Peoria and continued 
the practice, where all his children, four boys, were born. He came 
to Farmington in 1862 or 1863, where he followed his profession; but 
believing his health would be better by less night riding, he removed 
to Peoria, and engaged in practice with Dr. Evans, at No. 4 North 
Adams street, under the firm name of Evans & Brown. He afterwards 
removed his family to Cincinnati, where he continued the practice 
of medicine with a partner engaged in the drug business. Four years 
afterward he removed to Indianapolis, where he built up a good 



486 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

practice, and was editor of the Indianapolis Medical Review, pub- 
lished by the Indiana Eclectic Medical Society, and also, at the same 
time, editor of the Modern Eclectic, published at Macon, Ga., and 
a year afterward gave up the practice of medicine to accept the chair 
of obstetrics, in the College of American Medicine and Surgery, at 
Macon, which he held for two terms, still acting as editor of the two 
publications. This he found was more laborious than his profession, 
and returned to his family at Indianapolis, but shortly came back to 
Farmington, the place that always seemed most dear to him. This 
was in 1876. 

Such is a brief sketch of Dr. J. A. Brown. But to those who 
knew him intimately, he was much more than is indicated in these 
few sentences. That he was a man of more than ordinary ability, 
his career evinces conclusively; but while he was a success as a 
doctor, and an adept as an editor, he failed to achieve the full measure 
of his fame, because he did not enter on that field of labor for which 
he was pre-eminently fitted by nature ; and the reason he did not was 
that he made a martyr of himself to the profession of medicine ; had 
he given this up and left the drudgery of scientific writing and com- 
piling local news, and entered upon a purely literary career, he would 
have held no mean place among writers. In that style of writing that 
is poetic, and yet is not poetry, he excelled. In cases where his 
genius was stimulated by some of the sadder occurrences of life, he 
has left specimens of composition that are not excelled by any writer, 
ancient or modern. It would be difficult to pick out a man who better 
understood the merits of true poetic thought and diction; and there 
is now among his papers, some gems of his own composing, that would 
do honor to the head, the heart, the learning, the skill and the genius 
of any who are enumerated among the great poets. Most men are 
overestimated ; but Dr. Brown was underestimated. He was a learned 
man, scientific, warm-hearted, pure in thought, chaste in expression, 
a hater of oppression, a lover of liberty, felt keenly the sufferings of 
the poor, and was an ardent lover of the human race. All these 
traits were well developed, and were recognized by those who were 
intimate with him. But none of these were the most marked feature 
of his character ; his modesty transcended every other trait, made dim, 
or entirely obscured many of his more prominent virtues, and many 
times prevented him from receiving that degree of meritorious praise 
that properly belonged to him. His wit was inclined to sarcasm, 
but his aversion to inflict even a deserved pain, prevented his shafts 
from becoming too pointed. In a controversy with a person of wisdom, 
he was bold, fearless and honorable; when attacked by ignorant per- 
sons, void of understanding, — as he sometimes was — he suffered them 
to malign him, rather than to descend to their level. He scorned all 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 487 

pretense, but ever paid the tribute to his respect to genuine merit 
and true manhood, no matter where he found them. It is needless 
to say that such a man took the deepest interest in the welfare and 
good name of his children. He would not have been himself had he 
not done so: 

"For by the hearth the children sit 
Cold in the atmosphere of Death, 
And scarce endure to draw the breath, 
Or like to noiseless phantoms flit; 

But open converse is there none, 

So much the vital spirits sink 

To see the vacant chair, and think, 
How good! how kind! and he is gone." 

No one can read his sad and touchingly beautiful thoughts, 
penned on the death of his friends, and not realize that he was imbued 
with a deep religious reverence, a faith that was born of his love for 
God's grand and wonderful works on earth, and led him up from 

"Nature to nature's wondrous God." 

It is no wonder that many hearts saddened when he was stricken 
by disease, or that many eyes were dimed by tears when it was 
whispered, *'He is dead." No wonder that a multitude mourned 
at his funeral, and bowed their heads in sorrow about his grave. It 
was loving hearts and willing hands that wove a crown, a harp and 
a cross of those sweet flowers, and laid them on his casket. The 
cross — emblem of hope ; the crown — emblem of victory ; the harp — 
emblem that he was rejoicing with expanded powers, among higher 
intelligences. It was fitting, too, that the day of his funeral was one 
of those peculiar, sad, mournful days that come in November; the 
wind sighed, and moaned, and wailed, as it sang a requiem among 
the nearly denuded trees, and scattered dead leaves about the feet. 
Yes, it was meet that on such a day we should again stand face to 
face with the greatest of all human mysteries — death. Why did 
disease strike him down in the strength of his manhood, and in the 
prime of his intellectual powers? Why did human skill fail? Why was 
prayer unavailing to stay the career of death? Why could not the 
great love of his children hold him from the embrace of the grave? 
Ah, we can not answer. In the presence of the King of Terrors, every 
lip is dumb. We only know that 

"God's finger touch'd him, and he slept." 

And standing by his open grave today, we feel that 
"Death is not an eternal sleep." 



488 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

And now, farewell, dear friend, our bursting hearts can scarcely 
say the word; thy feet shall tread the ways of life with us no more; 
for thee the mystery is solved ; we grope in darkness yet ; but standing 
here between the eternities, with shadows all about us, we see celestial 
light flash up the peaks on either side, and burnish every glittering 
crag with gold, a token that our dear friend dwells in the light, and 
God is light. Farewell. Could our poor words but do thee justice, 
more we would gladly say; but they but mar the picture we would 
paint. Farewell, we walked together here until 

"As we descended, following Hope, 
There sat the Shadow feared of man; 

Who broke our fair companionship, 

And spread his mantle dark and cold, 
And wrapt thee formless in the fold, 

And dull'd the murmur on thy lip, 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste, 
And think that somewhere in the waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me." 

Farmington's Old Settler's Picnic 

The fourth annual old settler's picnic was held in the beautiful 
park in Farmington, Thursday, September 5, 1901. Between 2,000 
and 3,000 people were in attendance. C. C. Butler, who is president, 
presided in a graceful, easy and able manner, and welcomed the 
old settlers in a happy speech. The Barstow band, fresh from a 
signal triumph at Galesburg on Labor Day, rendered their finest 
selections: A quartet did the singing, and were heartily applauded, 
the members being Mr. and Mrs. Rolo, Mrs. Clayton Brown and Elmer 
Barstow. Master George Saunders sang a solo in a manner that was 
very pleasing. Miss Mollie Butler, who is a beautiful and charming 
young lady as well as an accomplished musician, presided at the piano 
and was highly complimented. 

W. T. Davidson, the able and brilliant editor of the Fulton 
Democrat, made a fine address in his own humorous and inimitable 
style, and held the closest attention of his delighted hearers from 
start to finish. After a song by the quartet, A. H. McKeighan made 
an address. Milton George of Chicago, then spoke for a short time. 
After this the games and amusements were given, all being good, and 
all hotly contested. 

There was a surprisingly large number of old people present, 
and they all enjoyed themselves immensely. The old settler's picnic 
was a decided success. 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 489 

A Misfortune 

At the risk of touching the funny bone of the smart guy with 
the fish cultured brain who has charge of a department in the Chicago 
Record, we venture to state that the W. A. McKeighan family had 
the misfortune to lose their cow, which died Sunday morning. We 
are painfully conscious that this information is infinitely lacking 
in importance when compared with the statement of what composed 
the elaborate wardrobe worn by Mrs, Flush, the wife of Fuller Flush, 
the noted "Punkin" ward aristocrat, at the automobile show, but it is 
a part of the "simple annals of the poor" that may not be entirely 
devoid of interest to W. A. 's friends. If the smart guy of the Record- 
Herald does hold this item up to ridicule we ask that his artist refrain 
from putting in the picture of the twin calves that died a few days 
before the mother cow, for we fear that some of the unsophisticated 
readers in the rural towns, not being educated to discern nice dis- 
tinctions in the pictures of the different breeds of calves, might mis- 
take the drawing for the picture of the wise guy and his artist, 
which we should very much regret on account of the two dead calves — 
that, by comparison — were two very intelligent brutes. 

Our Excuse 

In this issue we publish a letter that we received Tuesday, from 
San Diego, California. The writer is Mrs. Nellie Silliman, of Toulon, 
who, with her husband and her youngest daughter, Ruth, are now 
in California for the winter. Mrs. Silliman was a McKeighan, and is 
a cousin to all the McKeighans about Yates City. Her letter was not 
written for publication, nor do we have the permission of our fair 
cousin to publish it, and our only excuse is that we wish all our 
friends to share the pleasure we enjoyed in reading this fine letter. 

Leap Year Party 

The party par excellence of the season was given at the hand- 
some and commodious residence of Dr. and Mrs. J. D. C. Hoit, on 
Tuesday evening, April 5, 1892, and was one of the most enjoyable 
of all the parties ever given in the city. It was run by the young 
ladies, who invited the young men, went after them, looked after 
their welfare during the evening, and at the close escorted them to 
their homes. Refreshments consisting of ice cream and cake were 
served, and everything was in elegant shape. Below we give the 
names of the couples who attended. 

Frank Thomson, Ellen Roberts, Frank Wilson, Mae Blake, George 
Tennery, Jennie Hoit, Presson Thomson, Belle Hoit, Gilbert Lehman, 
Maggie Clancy, Owen West, Georgie Roberts, Albert McKeighan, 



490 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Addie Rogers, Robert Anderson, Blanche Roberts, Fred Camp, Onie 
Long, Artie Lawrence, Fode Cunningham, Ed. Wilson, Carrie Soldwell, 
Percy Lawrence, Mettie McKeighan, George Dikeman, Ella Hoit, Roy 
Flanegin and Lida Rogers. 

Lincoln Smith 

Lincoln Smith of Chicago, was in the city last Saturday, calling 
on his relatives and friends, and spent an hour or two in the Banner 
office. He is another Yates City boy, who has made good in his 
battle with the world. For ten years he was instructor in penman- 
ship and drawing in the high school at Canton, then held the same 
position for seven years in the Normal school at Macomb, and now 
for four years he has been in charge of similar work in several 
schools in Chicago and its suburban towns. In addition to this, he has 
established the business of making historical pictures and statuary, 
fresco and friezes for schools, having thirty-two artists employed. 
He has a fine new home at LaGrange, on the line of the C. B. & Q. 
daughter and son live in cozy comfort. It is a most pleasing task 
for us to record the success of our boys who, by their ability and 
faithfulness are "Climbing the ladder round by round." 

Married 

Married, at the home of the parents of the bride, at Mattoon, 
111. at high noon, Wednesday, September 14, 1904, James Leslie 
McKeighan of Yates City, 111., and Miss Sarah Rice of Mattoon, 111., 
Rev. D. H. Switzer of Wichita, Kansas, a cousin of the bride perform- 
ing the very interesting ceremony, in the presence of only the imme- 
diate relatives of the contracting parties. 

The groom is the son, and the only child of R. J. and Mrs. 
McKeighan of this place, and is a young man of blameless life and 
spotless character, a model citizen in every way, and has the brightest 
prospects before him for successful life on the farm. The bride is the 
daughter of Amos Rice, and is a member of one of the oldest and best 
known families in that part of the state, and is a lady of many accom- 
railroad, seventeen miles out from Chicago, where he and his wife, 
plishments. 

The bride and groom left for St. Louis at 2 p. m. where they 
will spend a few days at the fair, and they will arrive here some time 
next week. 

The Banner has always entertained the highest respect for James 
Leslie McKeighan, and it joins his many friends in congratulating 
him and his lovely bride, and in wishing them the largest degree of 
happiness in the new relationship, and the largest measure of success 
in life. 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 491 

Farewell Party 

On Thursday evening, September 15, 1892, the young people of 
Yates City gave a farewell party for the family of Editor A. H. 
McKeighan, at the pleasant home of Miss Carrie Soldwell. A large 
number were in attendance and the evening was pleasantly and 
profitably spent. After the amusements were indulged in, a most 
elegant lap supper was served. At the end of the repast the company 
gathered in the parlor, and Prof. F. D. Thomson read a paper in 
which he paid a high tribute to the Banner and the influence for good 
it had always exerted. Mr. McKeighan responded, as well as his 
feelings would permit him to, on behalf of himself and family. There 
were few dry eyes in the company, as the thought of parting came, 
and at the close the young people sang the beautiful hymn, "God 
Be With You, Till We Meet Again," as only the young people of 
Yates City can sing it. It was one of the most pleasant social events 
ever given in the city, and those who were honored by it will cherish 
the memory of it as long as life lasts. 

The Following Is Thomson's Paper: 

It was assigned to me to write the valedictory on this occasion. 
It is the first time that such an honor has been conferred upon me, 
and no doubt it is the last time it will ever happen. 

Not long since there appeared in the columns of our illustrious 
Banner a valedictory pronounced by our worthy editor, in which 
he reveals his feelings in severing his connection with the child of 
his brain — the Banner — and his associations with his trusted friends 
in Yates City. Since he has thus spoken, it seems fitting and proper 
that we, the young people who have grown up under his notice, should 
express some of our feelings and emotions at losing a familiar friend 
and his esteemed family from our midst. We wish him and his to 
feel that his work among us has been appreciated, and though he 
leaves us, yet will he live in our memories in the truest and best 
sense. To show him that his words have left impressions, and that a 
man's works do live after him, may the following allusions suflSce: 

Among our earliest remembrances, when sitting at our mother's 
knee, are the stories she used to read to us. They were not those 
Andersen fairy stories that have delighted so many boys and girls, 
nor were they the famous adventures with genii and imps and goblins 
narrated in the Arabian Nights, nor the entertaining fables of the 
deformed ^sop. The stories were not contained in a bound volume, 
but they have since been so bound together in our being that they will 
never be forgotten. They are familiar to you all, and no doubt are 
household topics of conversation. Do you not remember those "Poor 



492 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Fences" that used to infest Yates City? Our impressions from those 
stories are so vivid that an old pine board or a rotten post is never 
seen without the thought coming to mind: "You belonged to those 
Poor Fences." But the question now is, where are they? And echo 
answers, Where? 

The fences improved, and as we grew and noted the improvement, 
the influence of the local paper impressed itself upon us, and we 
naturally felt that the "pen is mightier than the sword," and we 
wondered in our childish way "what a pen that editor must have 
to think up such things with," Then in boy fashion we were glad 
that the fences were poor so that we could read about them, for now 
we had learned to read the Banner and enjoy it. But one shadow 
crossed our path, and that was' the time coming when the fences 
would all be good and we would have no stories to read about them 
in the paper. 

One day after these philosophical musings we were sent down 
town after a stick — of candy — and we thought that something had 
been turned loose or else we were in Texas, for the streets and alleys 
seemed full of cows. We had never noticed them before, nor had we 
been bothered by their presence; but this time they greatly annoyed 
us — we don't remember seeing our cow among them — and as we came 
down to Clancy's corner we met Jake Bird, and said to him: "Jake, 
just look at the cows. Aint they a nuisance?" "Oh," replied Jake 
with his characteristic smile, "you must have been reading the 
Banner." And sure enough the town-cows had taken the place of 
the poor fences, and that is why we had noticed them. 

There is little doubt but that the town-cows would give a vote 
of thanks to the Banner, and I believe that they were holding a con- 
sultation to that effect north of the school house yesterday afternoon 
when one venerable cow took her position before the rest and said: 
"Let's thank Mc. for his untiring efforts in securing our deliverance 
from the inconvenience of carrying close clinging to our necks the 
clanging cow-bells." And they all shook their heads in assent. 

Those "cow-bells" are not the only "belles" in the town that have 
received admonitions from our paper. From the Banner of January 
4, 1883, in reference to young ladies, we clip the following sentence: 
"A lady's manner always controls that of a gentleman; and if she 
does not respect herself he will not respect her." Such expressions 
as the above have appeared from time to time as warnings to those 
who practice loose street manners. We cannot mention all the good 
things found in the Banner, as time will not permit. Some of them 
are the cause of the library, temperance campaigns in our town, im- 
provements in our school house, abatement of the slaughter house 
nuisance, etc. 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 493 

The Banner has stood for a principle politically, and outside of 
its own party has exerted no small influence. It has caused the 
political bee to buzz — yea, even hum — in the hat of one of our honor- 
able men, whose emphidextrous perambulations circumscribing a 
quadrangular portion of our urban domain are performed in modo 
Vivendi a swinging his armbi. The ambiguity attached to these osten- 
tatious manifestations of ambulatory tendencies is clarified by an 
understanding of the governmental delivery of certain enveloped 
documents at the capacious apartments of our worthy representative 
of the postal service of the United State of America. 

And now I have reached the time that all of you are anxious 
to experience — the Hour Alone, the true poetry of Banner literature. 
How much it has revealed to us of the inner life of the editor and of 
those sublime thoughts that come to all who contemplate the universe 
in its relations to themselves or in their relations to it! To say that 
we have enjoyed it is putting a very low estimate upon it. In its 
last few hours there are evidences of a younger hand at the pen that 
wrote its contents. The long years of experience have made our 
editor look upon life in a far different manner than the author of its 
final columns. Yet in this we cannot but see the stamp of poetic 
genius revealing itself as the author is "a gittin' a' quainted with 
his reeders" in the last fifteen minutes of the last hour. "What could 
'Uure to brighter worlds and lead the way" more persuasively than 
this poetic strain: "It'll be pleasant tu sleep on the mountain side, 
with the green pines a wavin' over a feller, an' the birds a singin' an' 
a twitterin' all day long, an' silvery mountain streems a dashin' down 
by my lonely bed, makin' music sweeter than ^olian harps." 

No doubt I have left to the last the narration of the thing for 
which our editor will be remembered by multitudes in the future. In 
ancient times a certain man gained great fame because he secured 
the entrance into a great city of a wooden horse, and that to bring 
war and pestilence to its inhabitants; but what manner of greatness 
then should be attached to him who, in our day, brought to our city 
a score of wooden horses for the pleasure and amusement of our 
people? Think you his name shall perish as the grass? It cannot 
be. To those who availed themselves of that golden opportunity 
of mounting a wooden horse and thus linking themselves to classical 
antiquity, it will prove the event of their lives ; and to those who 
failed to grasp time and one of those horses by the forelock, the 
question so often asked will recur again and again: Is life worth the 
living ? 

It seems that this time of year in our community is one of many 
changes among the young people. But most of them are to return 
soon. Those whose last meeting we are tonight to celebrate are going 



494 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

to leave us to make their future home in a distant state. It is given 
to youth to more easily accustom itself to the new circumstances of 
a new county and new society, and as they leave us we will follow 
them with our best wishes for their future welfare. We have 
associated together for many years, and formed our record of each 
other in the memories of the rest. Our associations are to cease. 
The record stands as made, to live in our recollections. Should we 
never meet, the "faces kept in memory, knowing neither time nor 
change, will remain as we last saw them. We all hope that it will 
not be unpleasant to recall the past, and for you who are going to 
leave us to remember with pleasure the many friends you have in 
Yates City, and this assembly gathered here to say good-bye. 
We wish you all God-speed! 

Juvenile Lawn Party 

Mrs. Harold Cullings was the hostess of a delightful lawn party 
given in the honor of her little ten months old niece, Ethel Vera 
McKeighan, of Chattanooga, Tenn., Wednesday afternoon, June 14th, 
1911, at her pleasant home, north of Elmwood. 
The invitations read : 

"Come Wednesday afternoon at two, 
And bring your mamma along with yon, 
To meet a lady very wee, 
Who lives in Sunny Tennessee." 

Twenty-four happy children were present, ranging in ages from 
ten months to ten years, and about a dozen mothers. 

Soap-bubble blowing and other amusements dear to the youthful 
heart, were provided for their entertainment, and dainty refresh- 
ments served. 

It was an afternoon long to be remembered by all the happy 
guests. 

Parting 

Tuesday evening of last week, the editor and Mrs. Albert A. 
McKeighan had the pleasure of entertaining Rev. and Mrs. S. A. 
Teague and their son. Master Homer, at a six o'clock dinner, at the 
editorial home. It was to us of the home a most pleasant and 
enjoyable time, the only regret being that these valued friends were 
to leave here the next day for their new field of Christian work at 
Altona. During the three years that Rev. Teague and family have 
been in Yates City, we have admired his ability as a man, his 
sincerity in his work, his efforts to do his best for his church and 
the community in all of which his talented wife has been co-worker 
and we part with them with no small degree of regret and we hope 
the largest success for them in their new field. 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 495 

Card of Thanks 

I wish to express my sincere and heartfelt thanks to Mrs. Barbara 
A. Mathews and her Ladies' Bible class of the Presbyterian Sunday 
School, for the exquisitely beautiful bouquet of elegant cream roses 
and ferns received by me Thursday morning. As a token of love and 
friendship they are beyond value, and then as they bring the sweet 
breath of balmy June into my sick room, they bring to me a pleas- 
ure that I can find no words to express, and I can enjoy them while 
yet I can realize what a blessing it is to have such dear friends. May 
that God whom I serve, and in whom I trust, bless you each and 
every one. 

MRS. A. H. McKEIGHAN. 

A Pleasant Call 

While in Maywood last week, the editor called at the home of 
Mrs. Hamilton, and it proved to be a very pleasant call indeed. She 
was formerly Miss Lillie McKissick, daughter of James and Mrs. 
McKissick, who were former residents of Salem township, owning 
the farm now owned by Nead Bear. She has a lovely home at No. 3 
North Third avenue, Maywood, 111., a beautiful suburb of Chicago. 
Her husband is manager of an office of the Northwestern Railway 
Company in Chicago, She is a sweet, intelligent, lovely woman to 
meet, has three nice children, living, her oldest daughter having 
died some seven years ago, at the age of thirteen years. 

She has not forgotten her old home near Yates City, and inquired 
about several of our people here, among them the Hensley families. 
Dr. J. W. and J. A. and wife, C. M. and Mrs. Corbin — the latter of 
whom she knew as Miss Nettie Jaquith — B. and Mrs. Bevans, Lucy 
Bevans, now Mrs. Low, of Ft. Scott, Kan., Mrs. Ida Peck, Mrs. Emma 
Lawrence, — formerly Miss Emma McKeighan, and others. The time 
we had allotted to her home was not long enough, but the call was 
certainly one of the pleasures that we enjoyed during our recent 
vacation trip. 

A Runaway 

Tuesday forenoon Mrs. Chas. Westbay and her two sons, Willie 
and Charlie, drove a young horse to Yates City hitched to a tojJ 
buggy. They started to go from here to Elmwood, one of the boys 
driving. When near the M. E. church on Main street, the horse 
became frightened at a mower George Bowman was operating on 
the streets, and became unmanageable. Mrs. Westbay and the boys 
got out, and the boy clung to the lines until his mother, fearing 
he would get hurt, made him let go. The horse went up the steps 



496 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

at the front of the church, but as the door was shut he backed 
down, and tried to pass between the church and the fence on the 
east side. He again backed out, came around on the west side, 
having upset the buggy, and dragging it on the side. Here the harness 
broke, and he left the rig, and ran into the alley at the P. W. Thom- 
son residence, where he stopped. The harness was badly broken, and 
the buggy somewhat injured, but no one was even scratched nor 
was the horse injured in the least. 

The Park 

It is a great source of pleasure to the Banner to see the new 
park an accomplished fact. For long years we hoped for it. Some- 
times we almost felt as if we would not live to see the work under 
way. But we were not alone in the work. The good, intelligent, pro- 
gressive people were all working, and we feel like thanking them, for 
permitting us to see the work under way. It gives us satisfaction 
when we reflect that we tried to do just a little to help the work 
along, and we have no idea of claiming that it came through our 
efforts. The honor of this important step forward belongs to a great 
big majority of the people among whom we have our home. We 
congratulate them on this achievement, and we certainly do hope 
many of you will enjoy the beauty of this splendid park long after 
we have laid down the cares and duties that we have so loved to 
share with you for so long. 

Visited the Editor 

Edwin M. Brown, of Pleasant Hill, Mo., arrived in the city 
Wednesday evening, and is visiting the editor's family, and other 
relatives and friends here. He came here from Chicago, having left 
Kansas City late Saturday evening, with a shipment of cattle, reach- 
ing Chicago early Monday, since which time he has visited with his 
cousin, Albert A. McKeighan, in Chicago. 

Wolves Captured 

Tuesday, April 2, 1907, while Henry Sandall, who lives on the 
R. C. Mathews farm, some three miles northwest of Yates City, was 
engaged in plowing on the farm, he discovered a den of young 
wolves near a hay shed, containing seven young wolves. Mr. Sandall 
went to the house, got a gun, and hid himself near the den, and soon 
the old wolf appeared and came to within twenty steps of him, when 
he shot and killed her. He then secured the seven young ones, and 
brought the lot to town, where many gathered about the rig to see 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 197 

them, as it was township election day. This capture is a good day's 
work for Mr. Sandall, as the bounty is ten dollars for the old one, and 
five dollars each for the young ones. 

The Banquet 

Social circles here were all agog for the past two weeks over 
the banquet to be given at the Commercial hotel, in honor of L. P. 
Wertman, who had so long been cashier of the Farmers' Bank, but 
who now goes to Galesburg to take a position in the Farmers' and 
Mechanics' Bank. 

Before entering on a description of the festal occasion, permit us 
to say that he who was honored by it has long held the esteem and 
confidence of the entire business community of Yates City, and of 
all the country around it, while several of the business men of adjacent 
towns did their banking business here because they had the fullest 
confidence in him. As a man he is above reproach ; as a citizen he 
stands high, always being on the side of right and justice, and 
opposed to all forms of lawlessness ; as a neighbor he has no superior, 
and few equals; in short he is the kind of a man who is invaluable in 
a town, and whose removal will leave a vacancy not easily filled. 

By diligent labor and patient industry on the farm he first 
acquired a competency, and when he left it, it was to take the position 
of book-keeper in the Co-operative store, which he filled to the satis- 
faction of all concerned. When the banking firm of J. H. Nicholson 
& Co. was formed he was selected for cashier. For eleven years he 
has been faithful in that place. Amid all the defalcations and failures 
and business disasters of that period he was always found true as 
steel, faithful in every duty, and vigilant in guarding every trust 
reposed in him. It is not to be wondered at that all respected him. 
He is in the prime of life, has no "pumpkin ward aristocracy" about 
him, has good sense, sound judgment, is quick to reach difficulties, 
ready in his conclusions and a consummate judge of men. When we 
add to these his rugged honesty and high sense of justice, we have 
the characteristics that go to make up the successful business man. 

Mr. Wertman has been, for a number of years, a member of the 
School Board, and has done much for the cause of education by his 
tact and wisdom in the discharge of the duties of that office. 

He has a wife who is his equal in all that is good, true and noble, 
and a family of four interesting and promising daughters. The 
removal of the family is a break in the business and social circles 
that will be felt and regretted long after they are gone. 

As soon as it was known that they were to leave us the subject 
of some appropriate manner of showing the regard in which he is held 
was discussed, and the banquet decided upon. 



498 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

The preparation of the repast was given to Mr. and Mrs. Wilson 
Adams, of the Commercial Hotel, and those who were present know 
how admirably they succeeded in eclipsing all their former efforts 
in that line. The tables were marvels of beauty in arrangement, and 
were literally loaded down with every delicacy that the range of the 
market afforded. The dining room was hung with two rows of Chinese 
lanterns so arranged as to cross above the center of the table, and 
the effect was at once unique and pleasing. Every room, both above 
and below, was comfortably heated, well lighted and furnished with 
chairs and tables on which were appliances for various amusements, 
and the guests were made so welcome, and entered so thoroughly 
into the spirit of the joyous occasion that the allotted time seemed all 
too short. 

As soon as Mr, Wertman and family had arrived the long table 
was seated with the guests, and Rev. C. C. B. Duncan invoked the 
Divine blessing. A. H. McKeighan then arose and in a few words 
presented Mr. Wertman with a splendid cabinet photograph album, 
stating that it contained the photos of several of the donors, and 
is designed to finally contain them all. This part of the programme 
was a complete surprise to Mr. Wertman, but he made some feeling 
remarks in acceptance, and said he should value the beautiful present 
as a mark of their esteem. 

Before the departure of the guests Mr. Wertman made a nice 
little speech in which he spoke of his regard for his many friends, and 
his regrets in severing his business relations with the people of 
Yates City. 

The retiring guests shook hands with the family, wishing them 
abundant success, and the most noted social event of the season was 
ended. 

Among those who were in attendance were: Mr. and Mrs. W. 
Bailey; Mr. and Mrs. Henry Potts; Mr. and Mrs. Frank Douglas, of 
Elmwood; 'Squire C. L. Roberts and daughter, Miss Georgie; Super- 
visor J. Mason, wife and two little daughters ; Police Magistrate 
J. A. Hensley and wife ; Mr. and Mrs. I. C. Enochs ; C. A. Stetson and 
daughter. Miss Nelly; Prof, and Mrs. L. E. Harriss; Dr. and Mrs, 
J. W. Hensley; Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hare; Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Leh- 
man; Mr. and Mrs. W. H. Longden; W. H. Houser and daughter, 
Mrs. Martha Soldwell; 'Squire and Mrs. T. J. Kightlinger; Mr. and 
Mrs. Hugh A. Sloan; Rev. C. C. B. Duncan; Mr. and Mrs. Nelson 
Cunningham ; Mr. and Mrs. D. M. Carter ; Mr. and Mrs. Frank Adams ; 
Mr. and Mrs. Steve Johnson ; Miss Sadie Cunningham ; Miss Merrettie 
McKeighan; Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Ransom; Mr. and Mrs. G. W. West; 
Hon. and Mrs, R. G. Mathews; Mr. M. S. Jordan; Mr. Chas. Barker; 
Mr, and Mrs. A. H. McKeighan. 



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MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 499 

It was the coldest night of the winter, so far, and the roads were 
very rough, but it did not deter those invited from the country 
from being present. The way in which they responded must have 
been very gratifying to the one in whose honor the banquet was given. 

The only drawback to the enjoyment was the fact (frequently 
mentioned and regretted during the evening) that the illness of Hon. 
John Sloan, prevented he and his wife from attending, and that Mrs. 
M. H. Pease was too indisposed to admit their being present; Mrs. 
Duncan also ill, as was Mrs. L. A. Lawrence. 

Six O'clock Dinner 

On Tuesday evening Mr. and Mrs. A. J. Lawrence entertained 
at their beautiful home on Burson street a party of young people, 
consisting of the Misses Effie Johnson, Lottie Bird, Nellie and Edna 
Mason, Prof. Tsanoff and Albert Skinner. A delightful three course 
dinner was served to which all present did ample justice. After dinner 
the guests exercised their wits in guessing games, puzzles and cha- 
rades and at a late hour all departed for home, feeling in their hearts 
a decided warm corner for their host and hostess, by whom they had 
been most royally entertained. 

Fire 

On Monday, between 11 a. m. and 12 o'clock, noon, the barn on 
the farm of Hugh A. Sloan, situated one mile north and one mile 
west of Yates City, was discovered to be on fire, and was soon 
reduced to ashes, together with his farm implements, harness, four 
head of horses, a cow and a calf, some pigs, a lot of hay, and a corn 
crib, 24x48 feet, with a drive-way of 8 feet, in which was cribbed 
4,000 bushels of corn. Some days before they had been sawing wood, 
and the engine was in the yard. It was to be moved to W. G. West's 
and was fired up for that purpose. As it was being turned around a 
spark flew into the open door of the barn, and started the fire. It 
was discovered by A. J. Kightlinger and Henry Larson, who were 
passing, and the alarm given, but it was too late to save anything. 
Three of the horses were cremated, and the fourth got out, but so 
badly injured as to be worthless. The wind was blowing almost a 
gale from the south, and fortunately carried the flames away from 
the house. The fire engine at Elmwood was telephoned for and 
promptly responded, and did good work on the burning corn. A 
large crowd soon collected, and worked vigorously to prevent the 
spread of the fire, and stayed by the work until along in the night. 
There was no insurance on the property burned, and the loss will no 
doubt reach close to, if not altogether $4,000. The engine from 
which the fire originated belonged to Robert Marshall. It is the most 



600 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

disastrous farm fire that has occurred in this township for years. 
Mr. Sloan is a son of the late John Sloan, and is one of the most 
energetic young farmers in Elnox county, and his immense corn crop 
of last year is thus swept away in a few hours. 

Almost a Fatality 

Thursday evening, about 5:30 o'clock, Mr. John Hensler was 
knocked down by a car, on the side track, near the Union street 
crossing, and seriously injured. He is the wheel tapper and car 
repairer here, and has been in the employ of the company for per- 
haps nearly 30 years. An extra freight returning from Peoria was 
doing some switching, and a car had been set out on this track, and 
Mr. Hensler was standing on the track close to it. Some other cars 
were kicked against this one, and Mr. Hensler was knocked down, 
falling outside the track, with both feet across the rail. It was a 
car with a low brake beam, and this beam caught him and pushed him 
along the rail until the car stopped. When rescued it was found that 
while no bones were broken he was seriously bruised and injured. 
Had it been a different car, the wheels would no doubt have crushed 
both of his feet. Mr. Hensler is a sober and faithful employee, and 
much respected. 

The G. A. R. Entertainment 

A fair sized audience gathered in Union Hall on Saturday even- 
ing to hear the Phelps Sisters, Misses Margarett and Violet, of Elm- 
wood, and those who went were not in the least disappointed. It was 
an entertainment of a high order, and the young ladies are not only 
good as amateurs, but immeasurably above many who pose before 
the public as professionals. The older of the two young ladies is 
an easy, graceful and sweet singer. The younger is an adept at 
handling the violin, and both are expert on the piano. "The Song 
That Reached My Heart" was wonderfully sweet and pathetic. The 
only piece that Miss Margarett rendered, outside of the music, was 
"Biddy McGinnis at the Photographer's," but on that one piece she 
rests her claim as one having no mean share of histrionic ability. Miss 
Violet is one of the best delineators of character that we have ever 
seen. Her pieces were, "Here She Goes and There She Goes," 
"Nace," "Mice at Play" and "Buying a Feller," and the manner 
in which she did her parts showed that she is not only a close student, 
but that her natural ability is by no means common. Besides those 
enumerated above she gave "Selections from the Delsarte System of 
Physical Expression," that highly delighted those whose knowledge 
on that subject made them capable of appreciating anything so fine. 
It would be idle for us to state that the performance gave entire 



I 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 601 

satisfaction, because there are those whose tastes do not run in that 
line; but to those who have such tastes it was a grand treat. 

Went Home 

Miss Orpha Heller and Miss Lucy Heller returned to their home 
in Cuba after a pleasant visit of two weeks with Miss Mettie McKeig- 
han, who accompanied them to Cuba, on Thursday, where she would 
spend the night, and then go to Lewistown to attend the Galesburg 
District Convention, Y, P. S. C. E., which met on Friday evening. The 
Misses Heller are two charming girls, intelligent and really such good 
company that we miss them very much, and hope that they may 
often repeat the visit. 

Rev. S. L. Guthrie 

About two years ago we wended our way to the M. E. church. 
There were but a few, a very, few people present, yet it was the day 
on which the new preacher was to speak from their pulpit, having 
been just assigned to the charge by conference. We do not know 
how the preacher felt as he looked at those empty pews. He was a 
young man, a mere boy in appearance, but he took hold of the busi- 
ness in hand as if he were mauling rails or mowing grass. And he 
did preach a most excellent discourse. As we left the church we 
remarked to a friend, ''That boy is a talker, at any rate." Last 
Sunday evening we listened to him speak from the same pulpit, and 
what a change! Not in the preacher, for he was talking in the same 
earnest, thoughtful, eloquent manner; but in the congregation. The 
house was full of people, all eagerly listening to his rapt and burning 
words. These two years have witnessed a glorious resurrection in the 
M. E, church at Yates City. It was then inactive, cold, listless, 
indolent, conservative, dead. It is now active, warm, energetic, work- 
ing, aggressive, living. The Sunday school is booming; the prayer 
meeting is well attended; the children's meeting is eagerly looked 
forward to, and the young people of the church have an organization 
of their own. There has most certainly been a shaking among the 
dry bones of Methodism in these two years past, and there now stands 
up for the Lord an army, ready and willing to do battle for the cause 
of the Master. We are sincerely glad to see this amazing change. 
We are glad to know that the change has come by earnestly and 
persistently preaching the gospel. We believe the preacher has tried 
to hide himself behind the cross of Christ, while he presented the 
truth as it is in Jesus. Not only is the M. E. church proud of Rev. 
S. L. Guthrie, but Yates City is proud of him, is attached to him, and 
earnestly desires his return by the conference. 



602 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

Were Entertained 

Mrs. A. J. Lawrence entertained the Ten Little Injin Boys, the 
Overall, Boys the Sunbonnet Babies and her Sunday school class, at 
her pleasant home on Burson street, from 4 to 5 :30 p. m. There were 
over 40 of the little people present, and they were served with ice 
cream and cake, and had a wonderful good time. Miss Edna Mason 
and Miss Ada Cunningham assisted Mrs. Lawrence. 

Hasselbacher-Bird 

At the home of the sister of the bride, Mrs. Charlotte Cody, in 
Jacksonville, 111., on Sunday, September 25, 1910, at 4 o'clock p. m., 
occurred the marriage of Miss Zella May Bird of Yates City, and 
Mr. Harold Hasselbacher of Galesburg, Dr. Harker, president of the 
Jacksonville Woman's College, performing the ceremony that made 
them man and wife. 

Only the immediate relatives of the bride were present to witness 
the interesting event, they being C. V. and Mrs. Bird of Yates City, 
parents of the bride, and their little daughter Eleanor; A, C. and 
Mrs. McLaughlin, of Franklin, the lady being a sister of the bride. 

Both these young people are too well known to need special 
mention. Both were raised in Yates City, and both are numbered 
among the best people here. The bride is the third daughter of 
C. V. and Mrs. Bird, and is a sensible and charming young lady, 
while the groom is the oldest son of S. P. Hasselbacher, the C, B. & Q. 
agent at this place, and is a noble young man, who holds a good 
position with the Q. Co. at Galesburg, where he has a house already 
furnished, on East Main street, where the happy couple will be at 
home after the 1st of October. 

They went from Jacksonville to Franklin, to visit the sister of 
the bride, and they came to Yates City, Thursday, and from here 
they will go to their future home in Galesburg. 

Both these young people are numbered among the esteemed 
friends of the Banner, and it joins in wishing them a long, happy 
and prosperous wedded life. 

A Family Reunion 

Squire C. L. Roberts is one of the oldest citizens in Yates City, 
having been a resident almost from the time the town was laid out. 
His family, consisting of one son and four daughters, is one of the best 
and most highly respected in the city. The son, Charles, has been 
in the employ of the Q. company for a long time, and for the past 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 508 

several years has been station agent at Elmwood. Two of the daugh- 
ters are teaching, Miss Ellen at Oregon and Miss Blanche at Williams- 
field. They were home for the holidays, and Sunday the family had 
a reunion at the home of Charles, in Elmwood, all being present 
except Miss Georgia. It was a very pleasant affair, and the day will 
long be remembered by those who were privileged to enjoy its 
pleasures. 

What a Change! 

A few days ago the editor and Mrs. McKeighan had occasion to 
drive out a few miles on the road southeast of the city, past the 
beautiful farm homes of C. M. and Mrs. Bliss, and of Wm, and Mrs. 
Goold — and both of these farms are good specimens of the ideal Illinois 
stock farm — and we enjoyed the fine picture they present to the 
passers along that picturesque highway. But we were far the most 
surprised — and pleased — at the change that has been made in the old 
Camp farm, just south of the city limits, and lying along the west 
side of this road. Last fall this farm became the property of County 
Clerk Frank L. Adams, of Galesburg, who placed his father and 
mother, Wilson and Mrs. Adams, in possession of it, in order to 
have it put into first class condition. The unsightly old hedges have 
been pulled out and new modern wire fences put in, the land has 
been put into fine condition and seeded to clover, all the barns and 
outbuildings put into most excellent repair, and the old ram-shakle 
house has been transformed into a fine up-to-date farm residence, 
and a full complement of the best in horses, cattle, hogs and poultry 
has been placed on the farm. Wilse is as busy as a bee in a tar 
barrel, is as happy as a Coon in a hen roost, and has only made one 
**kick," and that was when the Banner failed to reach him on time, 
when he called up the editor by phone, and sent the following char- 
acteristic message : "Say, I didn't get my Banner. Is my credit played 
out? How the devil do you expect me to be religious and run this 
farm without the Banner?" Since that Mr. Adams has got his 
valued Banner on time, and his farm shows that he has struck a fast 
gait in that honorable calling. 

A Large Funeral 

Last week the Banner announced the death of Lewis W. Kay, a 
member of Company C. Sixth Illinois Infantry. The funeral took 
place from the home of his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Kay, three 
miles west of town, last Friday afternoon, October 14, 1898, at 2 
'clock, Chaplin Ferris, of the Sixth regiment conducting the services. 
More than one hundred carriages were congregated at the house, and 
about that number were in the procession that followed the hearse 



604. MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

to the cemetery, making it one of the largest funeral trains ever seen 
on the streets of Yates City. 

When the cortege reached Kent street, all the pupils of the schools 
took position in the lead and marched to the cemetery. Following 
the schools came the Modern Woodmen camps of Douglas and Yates 
City, the deceased being a member of the former camp ; behind these 
marched the members of Company C, who belong here, while on each 
side of the hearse marched the firing squad in charge of Captain T. L. 
McGirr. Following these came the long line of carriages. 

When the cemetery was reached the casket was lowered into 
the grave, the ceremonies concluded, the volley fired, taps sounded, 
and the first dead soldier of Company C was left to his last sleep. 

It was not only one of the largest funerals ever seen here, but 
it was one of the nicest, and reflected great credit on our funeral 
directors, Messrs. Taylor and Chamberlain, who made all the arrange- 
ments and carried them out so that there was no break in the pro- 
gram from first to last. 

John Chantry Sells Horses 

John Chantry sold three head of fine draft horses to Robinson & 
Eshball, and delivered them at Elmwood last Monday. They were 
grays, two of them being five years old, and one three years old. 
The amount Mr. Chantry received for the three horses was $800, and 
Mart Robinson says it is the most money any one man ever got for 
three horses in Elmwood. It shows that John knows how to feed 
horses, as well as raise corn. 

Truth Stranger Than Fiction 

Truth is stranger than fiction, and Yates City has the material for 
at least two first class serials, if there were but a Dumas, a Dickens 
or a George Eliot to shape them up, and dress them in words of 
burning tenderness. Here is George Love, who in the fair, bright 
morning of youth won the innocent affections of a girl, a sister to 
Lewis and W. C. Series. They were married, and five little responsi- 
bilities followed each other, and five mouths craved for food, ten little 
toes demanded protection from stub nails and frosts, and five little 
tow heads were in need of hats. The old problem — never yet solved — 
of large demand and small supply, confronted the Love household, and 
28 years ago he toiled over the plains, and saw the salmon leap up from 
the pellucid waters of the Columbia, and the wave break in peaceful 
grandeur on the golden shores of California. Here were incentives 
to seek wealth, and in two years he saved money enough to send for 
wife and babies. He directed them to go to New York, take the 
steamer, and brave the dangers of the deep. But the relatives of the 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 505 

wife persuaded her that the journey was too great for her, and 
asserted that she never could accomplish the task, and she sorrow- 
fully gave up the attempt. Time drifted on, the little breach thus 
caused widened, and a divorce was the result. The husband mar- 
ried again, and so did the wife. He obtained an affluence, and she — 
well, she is Mrs. George Wright, and lives in the little red cottage on 
the Wm. Corbin place, just south of the corporation line. But time, 
with all its changes, did not change the fatherly affection, and so 
this summer Mr. Love determined to see again his children. He 
arrived in Yates City the latter part of June, and went to the resi- 
dence of Mr. Series, where Mrs. Wright met him a short time after- 
ward. Those who were present will not soon forget the actions of 
husband and wife — so no longer — after 28 years of separation. She 
did not recognize him at first, but in a few moments the tide of 
memory rolled back over those 28 years, and — but we are not writing 
a novel. A day or two later they went together to visit a daughter 
in Iowa. This is the simple story, but it would have formed the 
basis for eighty-seven chapters, had Ned Buntline dipped his fertile 
pen to narrate it. 

Then there is another, more prolific in wonder, and better fitted 
for the pen of the novelist. Every one here knows Lewis N. Corbin, 
he of the auger and the plane. But he is a detective as well. All 
will remember Mabel Golliday, the handsome young lady who was 
here with her parents last year. Away back in the mystic past a 
gambler out in a frontier country of Kansas, whose wealth was great, 
made provisions to give a portion of his wealth to the first child born 
in the county. Mabel's parents heard of it, and in that identical 
county she first saw light, and breathed the gentle air of heaven. 
The family came back east, and the thing was forgotten. But Corbin 
was not one to forget. He got on a clew, and with the persistency of 
the sleuth hound, he followed it to success. He located the fortune 
that awaited the young lady, and then he determined to find her. 
A few days ago he was rewarded by seeing her, a pretty waitress in a 
Peoria restaurant, and now she is about to step into possession of 
a farm worth $8,000, and $1,000 in cash. Where in the realms of fancy 
can you unearth a better plot ? Corbin is the ideal hero. Tall, graceful, 
swarthy, brave, cunning and loquacious it would be as natural for 
a girl to fall in love with him, as it would be for a ripe pear to fall 
to the ground, or a son of Adam to sin. And where is there a heroine 
invested with more of beauty and romance than is pretty Mabel 
Golliday? The hero is a brother to City Marshall Corbin, and the 
heroine is a niece of G. W. Golliday, of this city. It needs but the cun- 
ning pen of the versatile novelist to weave from these two incidents 
a pair of twin stories of absorbing interest. 



506 MISCELLANEOUS WRITING S 

For Better or Worse 

Last week we received a wedding announcement from far away 
Indian Territory, stating that the daughter of A. J. and Mrs. Conderay, 
Florence Myrtle, and Geo. L. L, Bentley were married July 2, 1906. 
Mr. Bentley is editor of the Porter Enterprise, published at Porter, 
Indian Territory, and is well known here, having held the position of 
local editor of the Elmwood Gazette for two or three years. But 
George had the editor-in-chief notion in him bigger than a wood- 
chuck, and so he went west, spied out Indian Territory, saw it was 
a goodly land, selected Porter as the ne plus ultra, bought the Enter- 
prise, and has flourished like a huckleberry bush. But alas! while 
Bentley was coruscating, and looming up in the newspaper world 
like a lightning bug on a liberty pole, Cupid spied him and "marked 
him for his own." Alas, my Brother! that the matrimonial noose 
should have dangled so long before, and thou shouldst have run thy 
head into it at last. May matrimony have called thee, like a wanderer 
to a pleasant, happy and prosperous home, my good, bright, genial, 
kindly friend, George L. L. Bentley. 

Cashier Mason 

A week or two ago we stated that Mr. J. Mason had been selected to 
fill the position of cashier of the Farmers Bank, to succeed S. C. 
Eansom, who has the nomination for County Superintendent of 
Schools, and who will be elected. Mr. Mason is personally one of the 
most popular men in Salem township, is its present supervisor, and 
is well qualified to fill any position in his reach. As soon as it was 
known that the position of cashier was to be thus made vacant a 
petition signed by the business men was sent to Mr. Nicholson urging 
him to appoint Mr. Mason to fill the place. It was done, and Mr. 
Mason has been in the bank for a couple of weeks. It is no little 
honor to Mr. Mason that Mr. Nicholson has already advanced his 
salary $100 for this year above what the contract originally was. We 
are glad to see that Mr. Nicholson recognizes the ability and worth of 
the man he has chosen to fill so important a place, and we feel sure 
that his friends will be glad to know that he has so soon been compli- 
mented by having an increase of salary, voluntarily offered him. 
And what makes it all the more gratifying is that it is merited, as 
Mr. Mason's well known integrity, honesty and business ability will 
give the bank the confidence of this community. We join with Mr. 
Mason's numerous friends in congratulations on his success, and 
earnest wishes for its continuance. 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 507 

Our New Advertisers 

Monday morning this quiet town was startled by the sound of a 
horn. The first thing that occurred to us was that Gabriel was out 
on a toot, and that this editor man, J. A. Hensley, and Dr. Parker 
would be called upon for a final accounting. We were beginning to 
frame excuses, and thought we had better just say "Please, Mr. St. 
Peter, let me in for indeed I didn't mean to," and we felt sure that 
Hensley would say "I think my wife is the main partner," and we 
were just wondering if the doctor wouldn't walk up and say, ''Hello, 
Peter, no excuse from me, if I get in it must be 'just as I am,' " when 
we ventured to peep from behind the job stone, and behold it was not 
the end of the world, it was just the Elmwood High School students 
advertising their class day. They had a Gypsy wagon loaded with 
the prettiest, sweetest, smartest lot of student girls we ever beheld, 
and with them a number of innocent looking young fellows — but those 
fellows will bear watching, for they have the appearance of those 
who might break into the legislature, or even into congress — if no one 
was looking. Then there was equestrian beauty, or beauty on horse- 
back. One "Bonnie soncie lassie" had lighted with one leg on 
either side of her horse, and sat there more beautiful, as regal, as 
proud as the young queen of Spain, and we believe she is several laps 
ahead of any titled queen of any king cursed land. All these young 
people carried horns, a la Roderick Dhue, which they blew with ter- 
rific power, while one young bundle of beauty made some kind of a 
proclamation, in a tongue that was unknown — so far as we were con- 
cerned. We afterward appealed the case to the supreme court of 
Yates City, then sitting "en banc" on the corner of Main and Union 
streets, and Chief Justice T. J. Kightlinger handed down the opinion, 
stating that it was the decision of the court that she was inviting the 
citizens of the best town in Knox county to come over and enjoy the 
pleasures of their class day. We were glad to see these bright, repre- 
sentative young people of Elmwood. It is a good town, and has as 
many good people in it as there are dandelions growing in our lawn. 
But it was a lucky thing for Hensley and the doctor, for between you 
and I and the gate-po^t, we fear that had our first surmises proved 
correct, we should have been parted from them. 

Birthday Party 

Friday evening, August 7, 1906, was the 18th birthday of Mary 
Goold, daughter of S. S. Goold, and it was made the occasion of a 
surprise party of about 100 of her young friends, who gathered at 
the farm home of the family, one mile southwest of the city, and 
spent an enjoyable evening. 



508 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

She was made- the recipient of several valuable and beautiful 
presents, among them being a fine gold watch with diamond set from 
her grandfather and grandmother, Wm. and Mrs. Goold; a beautiful 
gold chain set with pearls from her uncle, W, C. Goold, while her 
schoolmates gave her a handsome gold ring and her aunt gave her 
a bracelet. It was one of the most imposing social functions of the 
season. 

A Rare Case 

We are informed by one of the best citizens of this county, that 
there are two brothers living in Salem township, who were in the late 
war, and both of them declare that they were neither killed nor 
wounded, nor yet lost their health. Both of them are well to do 
farmers, and neither of them has applied for a pension. Of course 
we are aware that this story will be doubted by many, but we have 
the fullest confidence in our informant. Still more strange, neither 
of those brothers claims to have killed a Confederate General or cap- 
tured Jeff. Davis. It gives us pleasure to make this statement as it 
is — so far as we know — the first authentic case of the kind on record. 
The names of these brothers are Robert and Ren Kelley, and they are 
well known to many of our readers. This forever sets at rest the foul 
slander that every soldier was killed, wounded or missing, and vindi- 
cates the brave boys from many vile aspersions. 

A Sorely Tried Family 

The family of John McKinty seems to be having more than its 
share of trouble and care. Mrs. James McKinty is dangerously sick; 
Mrs. Thos. Stone, a daughter, was recently severely burned while 
lighting a gasoline stove; Mrs. Rena Conver, a daughter, is in a hos- 
pital in Peoria, where last week she submitted to a dangerous surgical 
operation; W. D. Miller, a son-in-law, has been sick all summer. It 
would seem as more trouble, anxiety and worry than usual falls 
to the lot of this family at one time. Let us hope that these clouds may 
soon scatter, and happy days came to them once more. 

Mack Beale Will Lecture 

W. M. Beale will lecture in the opera house in Yates City, Friday 
night, March 16, 1906, for the benefit of the Yates City School and 
Public Library, his subject being, "That Little Bud of Humanity." 
The lecture will be illustrated by stereopticon views. Admission, 
children 10 cents, adults 15 cents. Let everybody come and help in 
adding something to the library fund. 



1 1 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 609 

Born 

To J. Leslie and Mrs. McKeighan, a daughter, at 8 a. m. Thursday 
morning, June 28, 1906. This event places R. J. and Mrs. McKeighan 
in the same class with the editor and wife — the grandparent class. 
We congratulate the happy parents, and our best wishes go out to 
the little stranger, our youngest relative, and we hope that life has 
more of happiness than sorrow for her. 

Golden Wedding 

Mrs. Jacob Lehman and Mrs. W. G. Lehman went to Canton last 
Friday morning to attend the golden wedding of Nelson and Mrs. 
Cunningham. They returned Saturday evening. There was a large 
number present, and Mrs. Jacob Lehman was the only one present 
who was at the wedding of the aged couple, in Pennsylvania, 50 years 
ago. There is but one other of the original guests living, a lady in 
Pennsylvania, who could not be present. 

Died 

We are called on to record the death of little Lulu Nelson, daugh- 
ter of Mr. and Mrs. John Nelson, which occurred at the home of the 
parents, in Galesburg, on Wednesday night. She had been sick but 
three days. Her ailment was lung fever. She was a sweet little girl, 
aged 9 months. The family and friends arrived here Thursday even- 
ing with the corpse, and the funeral is being held today. 

Class Reunion 

Back through the sere and yellow of the past, sixteen members 
of the class of '90, Yates City High School, traveled last night. The 
occasion that brought them face to face was their first reunion, cards 
for which were issued to the twenty-eight surviving members thereof. 

To this invitation Messrs. C. A. Vance and E. J. Corbin, Elm- 
wood; Lora Kleckner, Farragut, Iowa; Frank P. Anderson, Kansas; 
F. E. Barnhill, A. E. Lower, George E. Montgomery, B. B. Lawrence, 
W. G. Lehman, Dr. E. M. Carter, G. W. Anderson, C. W. Bird, Edwin 
Ekstrand, Yates City; A. C. McLaughlin, Douglas, and W. L. Kight- 
linger, Galesburg, responded. Letters of regret were read from 
Arthur Lawrence of Galesburg and Lynn Stetson of Peoria. As 
guests of the class Messrs. T. J. and A. J. Kightlinger and a Banner 
reporter were present, enjoying the occasion to its fullness. 

As early as eight the merry crowd swooped down upon the good 
host and fair hostess of Hotel American and ere long had placed their 
feet beneath the mahogany and discussed in a thorough and appre- 



610 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 



ciative manner the choice viands, that in tempting variety were spread 
before them. This over, the class repaired to the parlors, where 
Master of Ceremonies Frank P. Anderson, in a happy manner related 
the causes that brought them together. He referred with regret to 
those who were absent and unable to be present, speaking with pathos 
of those who had been borne to the golden yonder and whose lips 
forever sealed are now sleeping on the hillside. The speaker said: 
*'I believe we, as a class, have done well and are not only a credit to 
ourselves, but to the old building in which our minds were trained 
and our courses shaped." He then introduced in a felicitous manner 
Mr. Kleckner, who, as historian, delivered himself as follows : 

A brief history of the noted men of the High School of Yates 
City, Knox County, Salem Township, Illinois, most of whom were dis- 
covered about the year 1890. The High School Room. Who discovered 
it? To what nation it belongs. "Who settled it, and acts of its dwellers, 
both in the past, and the will be of the future. 

This High School was supposed to have been discovered, but 
why it was discovered is a question that has never been explained 
to the human race ; but one thing is true, it was our own little Frank 
Barnhill who discovered it. But who is this Frank? Oh! he was a 
little Italian going to the foreign court of Kightlinger seeking aid to 
discover this unnamable room. He was our little Columbus, and after 
many ups and downs on the sea of life the calm came at last, and he 
was chained in the happy bonds of matrimony, and is now living a 
happy life with his little family in our city. 

Next after discovery came the settlement of this beautiful Island, 
which was inhabited by the Indians. The Indian never made any 
advancements. To be a warrior and make the women work were his 
highest aims in life; but when our own little "lover of women and 
great Indian fighter," Willie Mac Beale, stepped upon the stage of 
life, and with a wave of his right hand and a determined look upon 
his Plaster of Paris brow, and says "begone! begone!" they all be- 
goned. And now if we will stop for one moment and look away back 
into the future we will see Willie Mac as Professor of one of our 
greatest colleges; then from that college we can see him going to his 
beautiful little home, and at his doorway stands his long loved one 
with a smile on her sweet lips like a crack in a pie. On entering we 
see him with a red-headed, cross-eyed baby on each knee, singing his 
beautiful song to them : 

"Hush, babies, my darlings, I pray you don't cry, 

And I'll give you some bread and some milk by and by; 

Or perhaps you like custard, or maybe a tart; 

Then to either you are welcome with all my heart." 
That is the last we will have seen of our own little William the Con- 
queror. 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 511 

Next we have the landing of the Pilgrims, and whom do we see 
stepping his big feet from the beautiful little ship Mayflower upon 
Plymouth Rock? It is our own big, bloated Chillis Bird. He is our 
own Miles Standish, and when we will have a desire in our hearts to 
read poetry we will go into the library, slide down the stair railing in 
the same way in which little Edgar Tennery used to slide down and 
soil his trousers, and from the upper shelf take down a book of orig- 
inal poems, written by our own little poet, Fred L. Camp, who is now 
married and living in Galesburg as a noted druggist, and on the first 
page we will see in big letters the "Courtship of Chillis Bird." 

Next in our history we have a Capt. John Smith. John is born 
to adventure. When but a boy he leaves home to engage in foreign 
wars, and once a big fellow wanted to scrap somebody to please the 
ladies, so Johnnie done up three of them smarties, and also won the 
hearts of the ladies, and will be forevermore a ladies' man. Then 
another time a big Indian had Johnnie's head down on a big rock 
and was goin' to smash Johnnie one, when Pocahontas rushed in and 
saves Johnnie's life. Some may wonder who our own Capt. John 
Smith was, and Old Lynn Stetson, now a banker in Peoria, 111., tells 
us that he is little George Anderson, the will have been chicken king 
of Yates City. And now Frank Hensler, a C, B. & Q. fireman, of 
Galesburg, tells us that this little Indian girl, Pocahontas, has grown 
to be a beautiful woman, and that our own little English farmer, Asa 
McLaughlin, has won her love and they are soon to be joined together 
in the holy bonds of matrimony by our own Rev, Paul Montgomery, 
now of Parkville, Missouri. 

Next in our peaceful history comes witchcraft, in which innocent 
people were accused of doing wrong, were beaten, ears cut off, tongues 
cut out and twenty people hanged. This matter was investigated by 
our own noted and most elegant lawyer, Neal Vance, now of Elmwood, 
111., and upon investigation finds a crowd of wild, murderous, roaming 
boys to be guilty of so much crime that Walter L. Kightlinger, editor 
of the Galesburg Sentinel, does this day openly and secretly publish 
the names of the following evil doers of our country. First, as leader 
and plotter of this wouldbe witchcraft is Arthur J. Lawrence, Gales- 
burg, 111.; Hutchison Wasson, Galesburg, 111.; W. E. West, Chicago, 
111. ; Lester Lawrence, Chicago, 111. ; Frank E. Gates, Elmwood, 111. ; 
Harris Lawrence, Yates City, 111.; Chas. Bearsdley, Stronghurst, 111., 
and he furthermore begs Judge Clifford Goold, of Yates City, 111., to 
instruct Dr. Thomas W. Thomson, of Chicago, 111., to prescribe for 
tkem in such a way that they may live forever and their names 
never die. 

But Alfred Lower, Yates City, 111., tells us of the awful life of the 
writer of the declaration of independence, our own little Edwin Eck- 



512 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

strand, who is now living at 1927 Crow street, Yates City, 111,, with 
his wife and 17 as cute little darlings as could be found anywhere. 
But such is life, so says our State Senator, the Hon. George Mont- 
gomery, Yates City, 111. Next Burly Lawrence, of French Creek fame, 
tells of our own little George Washington, how he cut the cherry 
tree, and how his Pa scolded him, and frightened George so badly 
that he told the truth, and the old man wanted to trade the hatchet 
off for a pair of suspenders, but George set up an awful howl and now 
since he is our own postmaster the hatchet is for sale at any old price. 
The next epoch of our history gives the soliloquy of our own most 
noted artist, which is as follows: 

When I was a bachelor I lived by myself, 

And all the meat I got I put upon the shelf; 

The rats and mice did lead me such a life, 

That I went to Galesburg to get myself a wife. 

The streets were so broad and the alleys so narrow 

I could not get my wife home without a wheelbarrow. 

The wheelbarrow broke, my wife got a fall, 

Down tumbled wheelbarrow, wife and all. 

— Col. E. J. Corbin. 

Then comes our own great philosopher, Socrates, who explains in a 
scientific way why the boy stood on the burning deck. Some say it 
was because his papa told him to stand there. But Socrates says that 
is not reasonable or true, 'cause boys don't obey their papa's that way. 
Some say he stood there 'cause it was too hot to sit down and others 
say he stood there to hold his feet down, but our own Socrates says this 
is not true 'cause he was only a boy and wasn't heavy enough to hold 
two feet down. But Our Socrates, who is our own little Dr. Earl Carter, 
says to sum it all up it doesn't matter in what position that poor boy 
was in, if it hadn't been for the old man's overcoat that poor boy 
would have frozen to death on that cold December night. 

The last epoch of our history is one which is recorded in the 
hearts of all. It was ''Queen Anna's War." How well do we remem- 
ber on that cold wintry night in February when over 300 French and 
Indians came down upon the defenseless slumberers as we were awak- 
ened from our dreams to death or captivity. Then we were forced to 
march to the wigwam of the heartless Indian. The horrors of that 
march can never be told. Just as we were about to pass out of sight 
of the fields of childhood, our farewell look told us that the beautiful 
buildings were burned to ashes and the fields laid to waste, and one 
of our number left behind. But the good proprietor of the Hotel Amer- 
ican and his good wife tells us that this student, being an industrious 
farmer, has turned these fields to the production of rice and has lately 
formed a trust with the only Rice in existence, and this lonely student 
has proven to be our own Little Frankie Anderson, 



MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 518 

And now, my dear friends, in our hours of happiness do not let 
our hearts forget our dear schoolmates who have been called to their 
home by Him whose eye is ever upon us and guides us through life to 
a final resting place and 'tis true, my schoolmates, that like them 
we must die. 

The God who made us says we must; 

And every one of us shall lie. 
Like our dear schoolmates, in the dust, 

And as down the stream of life we float, 
May our song like the dying swan's, be 

"Death darkens his eye and unplumes his wings. 
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings." 
Live so, my schoolmates, that when death shall come, 
"Swan like and sweet it may waft thee home." 
Farewell! Farewell! 

Amidst perspiring applause he concluded, and after a handsomely 
rendered selection by Messrs. Carter and G. W. Anderson, who per- 
formed on the mandolin and guitar respectively, Mr. Vance replied 
to a sally that had been thrust at him, relating to an experience of 
the class in chemistry that evoked much merriment. He, however, 
neither denied or affirmed the fact that he had uttered a supplication 
for his safety at the time, thus standing convicted as charged. 

Mr. Beale, next up, thought the occasion was one that should be 
perpetuated and a permanent class organization effected. In speaking 
individually of the class, his belief was that Messrs. Bird, Bert Lower 
and Ed. Corbin were the meanest. 

Postmaster Lehman declaimed in a pleasing manner and at th6 
close of his effort fell lifeless to the floor — that is, the chair in which 
he aimed to seat himself capsized and spilled him in a promiscuous 
manner. 

Mr. Bird vied with the toastmaster in telling Kansas stories, offer- 
ing a handsome illustration of his ability in that line. Said he : "Back 
of the levity of this meeting there must be something — a permanent 
organization should result." 

Messrs. Lower and Corbin held the boards for a few minutes and 
contributed to the occasion in a lavish manner, 

Mr. Kightlinger was full of reminiscence. He nagged the toast- 
master and accused him of having been exceedingly studious and one 
who had devoted much of his time to the ladies. He scored Messrs. 
Bird, Lehman and Lower and referred to Mr. Beale 's admiration of a 
color not found in the raiment of the rainbow. He further deposed — 
for everything said and done was under oath, the truth and that alone 
being the prevalent feature — that once the teacher asked each scholar 



514 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

to write on a piece of paper what he would like to be when he became 
a man, Mr. Barnhill declaring that the highest ambition of his life 
would be to become a clown. How well he has succeeded you well 
know. 

Then came the fun, for in his own inimitable way Mr. Barnhill 
arose and said he was about to begin his maiden effort and asked the 
boys to be indulgent. To report him with any degree of accuracy is 
next to impossible. He resumed his seat amidst the heartiest applause 
of the evening. Mr. McLaughlin spoke of the two absent members and 
of the sorrow and gloom their deaths had caused. 

Mr. Eckstrand was happily received, as was also a vocal solo by 
Mr. Montgomery. 

Dr. Carter told a hummer on Mr. Bird and recalled a time when 
Miss Hitchcock closed out a job lot of "gads" over that young man's 
back. The class toasts concluded with a brief talk by G. W. Ander- 
son, after which a permanent organization was formed, Frank P. 
Anderson being chosen president, Asa McLaughlin vice-president and 
C. W. Bird, secretary. The chair upon motion appointed a committee 
of arrangements, giving to them power to select time and place for 
next meeting. 

The evening's program concluded with a brief address from T. J. 
Kightlinger, who expressed the hope that the boys would make the 
organization a permanent one, and in the course of his remarks called 
attention to the fact that "the schoolboy of today becomes the busi- 
ness man of tomorrow," closing with the fervent wish that they might 
all be spared the reaper's hand and be returned another year. Follow- 
ing him came A. J. Kightlinger, who also believed in the organization, 
and told of the pleasure the meeting had given him. 

To Prof. Frank W. Thomson, of Galesburg, a vote of thanks was 
given for the many kind offices he had performed while preceptor of 
the class. Much of the spirit of the class as infused in it by him was 
made manifest upon this occasion. 

A vote of thanks was tendered the host and hostess, after which 
adjouiriment was taken. 



JUL 19 1913 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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